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TISM
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Phillip Glass's Arse
The pattern on her frock reminded me to order a large cafe latte and a croissant.
She said 'Stephen, you're looking older now.' 'I will have a short black,' I replied.
Back in her room she offered me plunger coffee.
I browsed through her Rimbaud. 'No milk, one sugar.'
The light of the morning left us both aware that probably we should chosen drip filter.
She set fire to the gas burner. It flickered out.
'You'll have to settle for instant,' she mumbled.
I could smell her perfume still lingering in my bed.
But up Philip Glass's arse is where I keep my head.
Philip Glass's arse.
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