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NEWPORT ALLEY
All along the boulevard, even the surfers sulk,
leaning their wasted boards against the street lights,
while I drift like a wind-torn cloud down Newport Alley.
The sea is sick today.
The telegram slips from my fingers.
My tears creep like little thieves, stealing
the sweetness that lingered on my tongue.
Even your death was an affectation--
curled stiff, like a paraph,
in the corner booth at Marie's--
while photographs of me
danced across a half-finished poem.
And we never made it to the Arc de Triomphe,
and I never heard your discourse on Truffaut,
and I never gave you what I promised:
four hundred kisses for every blow.
This was supposed to be
a holiday from your lies!
in a place you would never think to find me,
in this bleached paradise
mocking the chaos that binds us.
Did you think I would ever come back
to kiss your smirking corpse?
And yet, I really can't help expecting
to see you, popping around that corner,
like a blue sky after a false shower.
I'll be so happy.
I'll choke you with your narrow tie.
Price: Contact Artist
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