I am sinking, languid near Renoir and his La Danse à la Campagne, La Danse à la Ville which have always been familiar for no real reason at all I think I could have crawled up and lived underneath those two, up against that white-walled corner right there in the Musée d’Orsay waiting to be moved by all they call lovely waiting to feel something other than anesthetized tell me, why the hell did you have to get into that car? this is what I think for god’s sake, stay the fuck awake go back, do it again, make it right pull over, get a goddamn coke this should not have happened I am so angry at your friend who held the wheel a rancid, spoiled milk kind of angry that’s changing the taste of things this is not what I thought though when I saw her, your assassin for the first time at the funeral when I saw her with her pristine sling, her bulbous blackened eyes, when I saw her with her bruised and lifeless body walking when I saw the way she didn’t lift her face that day I told her it wasn’t her fault, I held her and told her I forgave her before I knew what that meant, what that would come to mean we never knew the fear before, you know it wasn’t instinct, it was consequence this sad un-whole sort of shape and now I can’t get disembodied You out of the weight in my voice why do you keep coming back to me?
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