Toulouse

Lazarus, that lucky sonofabitch, back from the grave with a hard-on and a grin, winks at some broad holding two rose-coloured decanters like she’s pouring salvation straight into the glasses of the damned.

It’s one of those wine-soaked nights in Toulouse where the angels show up in cotton slips, lipstick smeared burgundy, tits half out, eyes already drunk on the cheap red and the promise of skin. The room moves like a slow fuck, brown cigarette haze, bare thighs, everybody half-naked and honest for once.

Boys leaning into girls, girls leaning into girls, poems crumpled on the floor like used rubbers, some half-assed canvas dripping paint over the door, coats and hats tossed on nails like we’re never leaving, like morning’s a rumour nobody believes in.

Passion everywhere, thick as the wine stains on my shirt.

What happens in Toulouse stays in Toulouse, they say—
along with my goddamn Harrods hat and scarf,
probably wrapped around some dame’s neck while she rides another resurrection.

heavy handed deal,
and to lose along the way,
stinking humid days