In theory of my dreams

BUDAPEST reads the sign on the taxi beneath my window. I wouldn't be able to smoke the darkness out of my hair as the light fills the room. There she is across the river, standing, shining in all her color, in all her filth and glory.

The exile is the pavement of my mind

It's all in the silence
of the stemcell heart
The curling walls brush-up
against the throbbing of my temples
If the train speaks I don't know
what it says for it does not speak of me
The stare of the thirteen-year-old junkie
is still
Don't leave me yet
Beneath the pale moon sickness of your skin
I lose all sense of madness
in the arranged order of our epiphanies
We all want to crawl into the silence and cry