Paris Is

Paris is, a Greek God
fucked-up on valium.
Paris. I don't remember.
Plastered, I aimed for fountains,
you for aqueducts,
(aesthetics are everything
when you're in Paris.)
Oh God: my watch.
She (Paris) has thighs of alabaster.
Jealous, privileged cunt
-I would marry Paris
to the past, a weld like butter
and croissant. But.
Paris looms. begs and urges (without
her own specific voice.)
Would that we had met in Paris
and I'd dumped the pair of ye',
been dumped. Perhaps then some peace.
The gods always are pissed off.