by Lawrence Ytzhak Braithwaite


Belle, what he come for|| They don't come around unless it's there. If it's not there then they don't come round

mon coeur

Whadchu fill the pen for|| He got goodie that hit your belly.

They ever come when you call. It's you got or 'specting

The belle dame tried behesting alphabets spells as he shot up and wondered why you couldn't cover the lines of the pages with a dragging heart. She looking out onto the lake watching nothing rise to the top. Only thing that shines is the tin foil.

It's the sweetness coma of the letters in the words of the juju in folded coded paper--personal taggs to where it all come from. They can come go to and get yours. Did you touch his ink--put a rolling pin to braille.

[crazy making]: You were out gunned from the start sweetheart.

Him like Van thrashing into partners whirling around the floor on an opium waltz. Can he shout;

"Le demoiselle can't breath."

His arms, like all the other exquisite rhygins, those arms of theirs, retaining dozing partners, their bodies growing limp in the middle of a spin. Those arms around you, maintaining you, embossing your back. They won't break the windows--they're in a daze.

Follow the black line to where they come, where you from, it what you got coming and on the desk--liquid sweetness across the paper. It what he come for. It was there.

If it's not there, belle

It was just there...

This is not the place

Don't discuss the possiblity of passion

Not in future tense.



stop demanding why.

If it's not there,

Ils ne viendrant pas.

They won't come,

If it's not there, chere.