a hot time 

in the lukewarm 

hot tub 

in the paris finca

dirt ship 

down,  max

imum 

zen on the seine

you read your 

local, 

bell jar

let me light your plath

take me 

to the 

bistro

i love and missed you

nap to 

moon sa

fari 

slurp some snails at paul’s 

to an 

extent 

we are 

all, somewhat, a 

hyster

ical 

baby

in a pram being pushed down a paris boulevard

i love holiday poems. this holiday was the biggest rush. i barely had time to get my phone out my pocket. we were cycling around paris, cafes, cocktails, sightseeing, dinner. i bought a packet of fags. wish i hasn’t as despite not having bought another pack since i’m back on the nicotine replacement therapy.