On monmouth street, the devil lingers
smells the blood of things to come
fingers dipped in black magic
cigarettes and hashish on a double decker bus at midnight
feeling muscles pulled tight from dancing for hours
they left their bloody conscience by the door, it stuck, it did not close
well at all
wanting sex and drugs and and end of time
condom wrappers litter festival floor like signets
her father invited different women each weekend to sample
his sorrow and she
climbed down drain pipes to go where all
kids without structure hang
an empty playground with burnt spoons and plastic needles
the boys there, let her be, they liked their meat less
tenderized
one year she read eighteen plays of marlow and
three anais nin, the latter had her wet and thirsting
but the bathroom door possessed no lock
wax your legs, but not your crotch, the feminists at
night-school implored, she was one of them but not
able to summon the desire to behave well
where do night birds go when they want to devour?
Different to everyone here and the same
a pulse urging movement, willing escape
fucking strangers without pronounceable names
tight buttocks, red hose, patent shoes, broken heals
against radiators leaving stripes down her thighs
such is the transpose and yield of hormones
one day you’ll look back & regret will not be what you see
sleeping on fur coats in the dressing room at 23.00pm
platinum hair on your lapel, can you survive her
blistering disregard or is it what you want?
Sitting cross legged eating tinned asparagus as he
jacks off to henry & june, the part where uma thurman
and her incredible triangular breasts, reach
lighting up blunts on promenade des anglais
grinding hips in la croix des gardes after the gates are locked
no protection, you’re already ruined thrice over
with someone who leaves you before they’ve begun
your grandmother is jarring jam from fallen fruit and she accuses you
of stealing her cigarette money which you did not do
you were out in the garden playing in the faraway tree
eating scabs and letting the neighbor undo your shoes
they fall like birds wings without bird into pond
once you drove your bike into that water and leaches
left their love kisses on your arms
like that boy who fed you clafoutis, calisson and cough candy
when you ran a fever and he sucked on your flat bosom
like starving tight rope walker
running down le suquet in search of brown eyed kids
to buy alcohol and pastille du mineur, danging white legs
and tanned toes into dirty water
one said; You are too flat chested I like them bustier
you smiled in relief, punched their thin arms and ran off
secretly desiring the older sister who stood silhouetted against
setting sun, darkness of her skin reflecting thrashing waves
like she had been born from the urgent depths
her lips large and angry with her age, gauloises yellowing
hardly smoked just flung from painted finger to finger
you longed to reach underneath her blouse, to
black lace, brown skin, white lines
on her dressing table, saints, glaring disapproval
she liked boys with mopeds, tight jeans, long hair
no matter how hard you tried you could not
interest her apathique boredom into desire
instead punishing yourself, with last minute trains to other cities
necking at le grand rex, with sour tasting boys
who supplied black smokes and soft necks
in the darkness of raspoutine snorting on her thigh
leading to empty windows and
the feel of late summer on clammy nude skin
he tells you to close the curtains, watching as you
turn, slender and warm, toward him and away
mother at la main bleue, her own lithe figure
sharpening history, walking into rooms without
locks, a family legacy.
In tenerrife they say without a tan, stand outside
too young for adults, too mature for boys
an urgent pulse, the stage a bouquet of bodies
a turkish man gives me a rose, says I remind him of
sissy spacek, I lend
a blushing danish girl my last pesos, she
returns an hour later and shares a lemon ice
her long tongue licking it between smiles
it’s midnight and the buses run by the half
in earls court where whores and rich men
laugh, knives on board better to walk
he’s holding me up, he’s holding me down
we create a child, we lose ourselves in curling throng
when I see him again, it’s ten years later
his black eyes have bags underneath, he looks like he’s
been carrying grief for the children of pont des invalides
to battersea bridge with green birds no longer there when
it was cold and her art in the water lost
nobody but I believed it happened
je n’ai jamais voulu être blessé. Je voulais être aimé. Violemment.
now she has a child and I ache to hold
onto that time with
both hands.
hijacked amygdala 