(from) Better Than Sleep: Bruised Petals (1) – Samara

Samara
une des fleurs du Jardin
peut-être pas la plus jolie
mais la plus gentille
et jolie, jolie, jolie comme une rose
in autumn
tired, overblown
but soft, and sweet
so soft so tired-sweet
I felt for her
thought I would pluck her
take her home with me,
love her

Samara
aime les hommes riches
peut-être pas élégants
mais riches, et libres
et liberaux:
je t’aime (elle dit), je t’aime, je t’aime, je t’aime
(elle n’a que ces trois mots de français)
fuck me!
(et deux en anglais) – Je t’adore
I murmur, neither variety
nor verity
being the spice –
Love me –
Mmmmmmmmmm

Real poverty is a sea –
it drinks and drinks
infinity
unaffected by the finite.
Infinitely poor
Samara
too
till I had no more
and she
as poor
as viced by poverty
as she had been before –
she laughed
love her

They took and sold
or kept
my everything
Le Jardin,
gave me a torn old djellaba
(Samara begged) let
me stay around
as long as I swept
and washed
and polished the leaves
slept in the cold
and didn’t try
to love her

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