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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile


05.11.08, Sunday evening


and all my dudes and awesomes and yeahs tumbled out; as if the Pacific suckled on my toes and eucalyptus perfumed my earlobes

and I wore my prettiest dress; as if winter had never chapped my skin raw nor forced itself into my veins; as if my friends waited in a bar around the corner

and I was dreaming by the canal, under leafy sycamores and blooming horse-chestnuts; as if the water was dredged and clean; as if teenage carp fed at the bottom, instead of long-tailed striped plastic bags; as if the umbrellas were once again intact and the bicycle wheels were turning on the pavement

and I was laughing; as if Misfortune was my best friend; as if she taught me all the ways I was fortunate; as if Fortune and Misfortune were the same, of whom you mustn't expect much from, only a vision, perhaps, of your own strength and failures







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