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• Artiste: P.S. Eliot
• Titre: Asphalt
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pass it off like a chore, we run late racking for rationale to berate me the coffee has gotten cold and i summon patience as my fragile heart beats like a drum this is not, is not language no this is not love at all my veins shiver as a spectacle and you're stoic and tall get up off the floor i know this is a blurred, pitiful galore and we all find solace in heartache and grief some sequence of warm, self-loathing relief we can't speak and you poetically depart from me written words like a marquee and i can't move and i can't speak this language is foreign to me i look outside, what do i see steam off the asphalt from all the heat and all the asphalt that i see the steam just seems to follow me and i can't leave without acquaintance tagging along behind me listen to me when i talk, in a trance good advice bounces right off of you at first glance we're alone in public spaces, we're always alone isolated embrace, you're error-prone you keep calling, shaken-up dissecting every word thereof this is not, this is not a language no this is not, could not be love