Palm trees pixellate in the Pacific breeze,
While champagne stains hems and lapels,
Sticky for the Malibu sand,
And aromatic in the offices of cut crystal.
We tut and promise to clean it off,
But we never do.
 
Lips on the verge of bursting,
Meaningless declarations of love,
The sun bakes dreams into the pavement,
Outside this absurd theatre,
We watch each other in expectation,
Of flight through the doors and into the darkness,
Of leaving the wet organs cooking on the concrete.
But none of us ever do.
 
Every night, the giant ants,
Reason with me at the motel,
Their antennae twitch in the moonlight,
Becoming more furious on my pillow,
Coming ever closer to my eye in hope,
Of communicating their dreadful secret,
Until they give up and retreat,
Betwixt carpet and skirting board.
They think that they can make me leave,
But I never will.
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