paris 1

The epoch of Molotov cocktails, workers revolutions and common ownership
long since holding sway in the heart of Mother Russia had put unvarnished truth on ice for
both the refugee dreamers and the wide-eyed sleepers now nesting in The City of Love
little to amuse other than conceive modern art, huddle as one collective and to beseech the
shortest, poorest allegory of all, “Outside of the cave is merely outside of the cave”

Floozies and intoxicated summer nights distract, even belittle the new-fangled totalitarians
brazenly peeking over the brink of the Maginot Line planning this and that for another day
yet as of now wrist tattooing and counting golden fillings, logging the places the fiddler still plays
while spawning ever more flawless blond, blue eyed specimens for tomorrow’s humankind

The restless young dog day neo-impressionist behind the game his peers play listens intently
to news from Moscow told askew, as…

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