In bed with a stranger in an intermediary Beirut, pretending cities could be destinations - Perhaps, with terms like martyr, heritage and outlined aesthetic identity, cities could.
Beirut, in its absolute glory, fails to combust enough life force for heat. You rely on fur, relay to her, your glutinous ears, as you listen to it, things about him, as he knows all, but barely sees.
Beirut, and its untamed aura, bulging diaspora, disregarded decay and impotent day, fails in silk robes - in deathbed sheets - cannibal, it eats itself, slowly, to a never end.
Curtains do not close.
I hear no applause.
I hear crashing waves on a man-made shore, crashing, a sound foreseeing its everything, its today, its tomorrow.