Paris 03

So I waited in the Scottish pub, a small place on a little street I can’t remember, Rue Francois Miron or something, where they sometimes serve good ale, and had one, or two, or three, watching the football match on the TV. I argued with some Spanish guy when the team I wanted to win didn’t, before the English barmaid tapped me on the shoulder and said, 
        “Are you Ken ?”
She knew my name so I guessed that the phone call must have been from her, the other one, the one I’d seen the last time. For a brief second I thought of you and promised to myself that I wouldn’t fuck this up then answered the phone. She said she’d be along soon, maybe an hour or so. I waited, nervously. 
        When she did come she arrived with friends I didn’t know, and walked past, deeper into the bar, beyond where I sat. Looking at the door and I thought about ill planned escapes but something held me and I walked after her smiling. I had another beer, the fourth or the fifth now I couldn’t remember, and we talked politely as if we were only friends, but I knew there was more going on, there was more underneath. I realised then that we’d drifted into dangerous territory, somewhere I shouldn’t have been. Thoughts about you grew larger and larger in my mind the whole time. I could see in her eyes that she wanted more, that she needed something that I wasn’t ready to give. She wanted back the old days when we had shared each other, but they had been brief and in truth had meant very little. At least to me. So I knew what I had to do. I finished my beer, my head dizzy and dancing and said to her that I was going to leave. She protested, named another bar, more people to meet, but I said no and walked through the door.    
On the late city street it was cold. Jesus, Paris can be cold. I only made it a few steps before she came after me. She wanted to know if I was sure, did I really want to do this, but I knew I had to, and kept on walking. It wasn’t long before I was lost. I waited at the side of the street for a cab but none stopped, less and less people on the corners, the night getting colder each second. For a moment thoughts of returning flared, maybe that was the way things were meant to fall, but something made me not. And as the cabs stopped coming and the people stopped walking, I knew I was alone.
I crossed the street to the metro station but it was locked. Another lost character was lying on the steps asleep waiting for the morning to come and the trains to start running again. I sat across from him. He looked up at me and I looked at him. Offering him a cigarette, he mumbled something in French that I didn’t quiet get, but he took it anyway. For a fitful hour or two I snoozed and fell asleep. When I woke he was gone. I could hear the echoing rumblings of the trains from below but still the gate was closed, so I rose, dragged myself back up the steps and made my way down the street to the next metro station. This one was open. In embarrassment I stood in front of the ticket kiosk and waited until I gained the courage to ask for my fare. 
Standing on the platform with the few lonely stragglers, I couldn’t help thinking about you, and how we would have been in this beautiful city, how the few days that I’d spent here were broken, misshapen, mutations of what really should have been, and how I never wanted to see this city without you again. And so I spent the next day doing the things I had to do, joylessly counting the minutes until the bus would arrive to take me to the airport and I could leave all this behind me and see you, and be in your arms, away from this city that I once loved.

Originally Published online by This Is It Magazine March 2004

Watching

Watching them walking, the shape, the curve, the movement of one step in front of the other down the streets, the eyes hidden behind cascading hair, the smile, the look, the not look, ignoring, pretending to ignore, the watching, all that’s hidden and not hidden, the lies, the make believe, the sun pushing though their fingers, the curve, the curve beneath, the curve beneath garment and coat, hidden, why hidden, hidden from watching, the futile attempt not to care, they all care, watching, nails painted, eyes painted, lips painted, nails, eyes, lips, the lips, oh the lips, the bounce, the twist, the turn, the half turn, glancing into windows to glance back, smiling half smiles, hidden, watching from the corner of eyes, wanted to be ignored so they can watch back, they lie, I lie, we lie, together lying, too clever, too clever for our own good, twirling the world on the tips of their fingers, impaling, pulling, dragging, catching me and dragging me after them around dark corners, gone, gone now, and me with them, the smell, oh the smell of them on the air after, after they have left me, perfume, the perfume they possess, left with me, the small crack, the crack of dark tongue darting, behind small teeth, too white, too white, darting, the darkness behind, inside, inside those glittering lips, glittering with the glitter they put there, the glitter I watch for, the glitter I want, inside there, and underneath, my imagination, the small, the tight, pink and red and black, holding back, taking back, all I want to see, these eyes no good for underneath, I think, I dream, I invent the underneath, where I cannot see, underneath, and there it lies, and the skin sucks me in, imagination gone again, the heels, the hair, the lips, oh the lips, closer, closer till the kiss, only the kiss, imagination, every one of them as they walk by, skin on skin, finger on skin, them, me, them, it all, all of it, and then the blink, the blink till it is gone, and then another one, the skin again, and the lips, and back again, underneath, inside, the lips, and I am gone, again, the heat, the touch, they move, touch them as they move, want, wanting to move closer, the touching, rooted, rooted to the spot, can’t move, can’t touch, they walk on with eyes, hair, lips, the curve, the slip, the slide, the slide, then the badness, it comes, comes inside, the anger, twitching, itching, eating, that badness, that jealousy as they walk, not looking, why don’t they look, the hardness of me, inside me, with me, too long, too long, take it away from me, take it, take them away, leave me alone with my inside words, inside thoughts, thoughts, inside, without them, without them, then gone, it is gone, thank god, thank them, and I am back, back to my watching, then the two of them, the him and the her, him, leave him, the her, him with her, testing the badness, the darkness just left me, testing, the him and the her, the laughing, the joking, the joking I can’t hear, don’t want to hear, but straining, straining to hear, I don’t want to, hear, the him and her joking, the him and her, the look, the glance, the touch of them, the children unborn between them, ignored now, more ignored than before, more ignored than completely, the him, the her, hands held, hands holding, together, the small dead leaves crushed beneath their feet, still testing, still holding, holding the badness back, the bitterness to spit into theirs, wanting what they have, wanting theirs, the him and the hers, wanting, pushing my eyes across the street, away from the him and her, back to them walking, the hers, the hers, with the walk, and the curve, the inside, the underneath, my imagination back, the badness gone for now, now, for now just the watching, the leather, the lace, the small things, the small things they wear, their colours, the fall, the feel, the move as they move, it all, all on top of me, the boots, the boots that make them walk so tall, so small to me, the detail, but the boots that have me, trample all over me, all over me, trample me, longing to be stepped upon, squashed, made nothing by them, by those boots and their walking, nothing, the light cotton and the little Vs, all their little Vs, and back to the underneath, the unseen, there my mind rests, rests and pants, and pants and moans and rests, the underneath, the small dresses and the pale thighs, pale thighs leading to the underneath, the line, the move, the curve, forbidden but calling, forbidden calling me, calling, and little bags of tricks on their arms, little bags of tricks, and there is no talking, no words, just the watching, the silence, the unsaid, unsaid and silence, no talking, no need for words, they don’t look, pretending, not noticing my watching, my watching, loving the silence between us, between me and them, me and the hers, the hers with their movement and curves, the me and the hers and the watching, then she looks, catching my breath, she looks, the smile, the flick, the smile, the look, rooted, rooted as before I watch her watching, the smile, the flick, the curves, the lips, oh the lips, the inside, the underneath, the inside and underneath are smiling, imagination smiling, I shift, I twist, I turn, the her watching from across, across the street, stopped now, stopped, smiling, watching, I turn, ignore, am moving, moving, all bravery gone, washed into the darkness, but the underneath, the underneath, I cough, another appointment calls me.


Originally Published in Southword 6 June 2004

Burning

In the greyness before, when I'm alone with the greyness, and this burning inside, and the time, the time till I see her again, I wait. I wait. Strange images dancing around me my head broken, I can taste her still, and I wait. I wait until that appointed hour, that shitty little second, till I see her. Alone the two of us in the little room, the heavy curtains blocking out the air, just our panting, and we move closer, fumbling, fumbling, pulling button open, losing control of hand and mouth and tongues, and the heavy air, and the heavy air between us. I'm no longer there in that moment, my head is gone, my body moves with it's own precision. I'm in her eyes, all of me in her eyes, as I stare brightly back through tight curls of a blonde head. And then the underneath, drawn from her, no longer looking in her, looking upon her, the soft tenderness where fingers run, looking for an opening, looking for the chance, and it slip, and it wet. Well I can taste her, taste every piece of her, soft sheet beneath me, as I move closer still, the worthless pieces thrown aside, the garment I no longer want, the robe I have no use for. I am with her, and closer, and closer, forgotten those lost grey moments when we were apart, and the burning between me even harsher, and she asks, and I refuse, she asks again and I refuse, simply to play, with her, and then asked again I give in, and crumble, entering and we are joined, one, moving against each other, slowly, slowly, and again I'm in her eyes, no thought, no thinking, no words, no phrases, no sounds, just us, and what we have become. I rub my hand around her soft breast, push my hand against her hard thigh, and move, just us, and we build, create, construct higher and higher, until the tallest building, and then there perched on the highest vantage, the waves come rolling in around me, pulling brick from brick until nothing remains, except crashing hot running sound, and the passing destruction, and in those seconds, it is all gone, all gone, nothing remains but desolation, sweet oblivion, complete abandon, no more touch, no more sight, no more sound, no more taste, nothing left to hear, I no longer exist, and then she comes rushing in again around me, heavy breaths in my ear, and we lie exhausted, softly touching, until bringing each other back to the real world, the world of drinks, and cheese on crackers, small children crying outside the window, I listen to the passing traffic, and listen to her small breaths, and wait for the greyness and burning to return.

First published online November 2005 @  http://www.poeticdiversity.org

Daredevil Circus

They shot the Indian elephants first, those creatures that had never felt the Gandhi sun. Looked into their small eyes, saw the strange language there, before pointing their automatic rifles. They had to show they meant business so they shot the four elephants first.

Pepe, the clown who used to drag reluctant people from the audience to join in the act, was unwillingly hauled from his bed, where he dreamt of his boyhood in Seville. They held his head in the bucket, the one he filled with torn up silver paper, but real water this time. Held his head till his tiny feet stopped kicking, till the thick makeup was washed from his face. His gigantic shoes taken and used to house chicken eggs, when their mothers had already been slaughtered.

They found Luigi in the bed of his brother’s wife, Angelina, awake and aware, knowing already his elephants were dead. They laughed then, laughed at the sequinned dress Angelina had worn for performances, beautiful under the circus ring lights, cheap and lifeless in the darkness. They forced him to watch while they took their pleasures, their enjoyment before they dragged her to her slavery, a lifetime in the big kitchens, which freedom had deserted. Forced their hands around her legs, coarse like the trunk where the elephant had lifted her above its head. Coarse. All broken then, he waited without struggle, watching in silence as they splashed the fuel around the bright wooden caravan, home of his roaming dynasty. The match falling gentle-like to the boards, the curling soft smoke hand round his neck tighter till unconsciousness broke through. 

            Mario, sliding between the sheets of Rosa, the other elephant girl, didn’t watch his brother’s death, lost in the steps of his dance, the flickering of flame against the low cloud unnoticed, but when their heavy boots broke through the door he fought, brief and brave. They shot him where he stood. Still breathing as he watched, again their pleasures taken with the girl, stretching out his useless hand, mouthing soundless from his desperate mouth. To captivity with her too, beauty and youth saving her from domestic servitude, placed a collar round her neck stating ‘Caesar’s am I’, a concubine to be.

They made Calypso, the girl who swung on the thick twisted rope by the neck, perform, caught awake as she entertained her insomnia. Laughed and jeered as tears ran down her face, not painted at this late hour, the truth of the years etched there, the ringing of gunfire echoing through the empty big top, around the deserted benches. Spun till she grew tired, the twisted twine cutting in. Made her stand then on the bucket that Pepe, the Spaniard once owned, traces of his too large smile still smeared there from his drowning. Made her stand till they could laugh no more, then kicked Pepe’s pail away. She hung there till they struck the tent, a marquee for some secret Maharaja’s garden parties.   

            The great white performing horses struggled in the stalls, rearing high their manicured hooves. The invaders, not prepared for that, hadn’t brought a horse charmer to break their stubborn spirits, held their steel toe caps brief-like, unsure, knowing no bullets were meant for the kin of Pegasus. Exhaustion, eventual, claming their screaming spirits, sweat soaked sides rose and fell with the pulsing of the flames. Then chained they were, high heads of Trojan pride shackled, bent and penitential, failing in their duty, the circus lost, no defenders left, lead away to be steeds of yet unborn dictators as they marched the boulevards of bright birthday military parades, failing memories of children’s smiling faces, watching them dance, erasing in their eye.   

Watching the fall of their mightier cousins, the small black ponies quick-like lost their faith. No rescue, no Dunkirk here, shining coats the master groomed, legs to short for riding, cut them stunted. Witnessed whimpering the noble horses taken in chains. Sniffed briefest at the sawdust of their home, prodded forth into the bitter night, turning dim eyes skyward, glimpses of the hidden moon peeping through the grey, the sharp grass beneath their small limbs, before the great dust mines of the north consumed them, pulling carts till death’s release through endless, starless darkness.   

            The tight rope walker, the man with no name, in the past had claimed he was from Mexico, had seen this scene before, faceless men arriving in the night. Heard it all through the too thin walls, of Buenos Aires, when they came calling for coffee on the disappeared. Had hid his face in mother’s lap till the shouting stopped, but too old now, running too long, sipped a small sherry to calm the questions tumbling, prayed to a virgin that had ignored thousands more qualified than he, hummed soft old tunes to himself, practising his new routine in his mind and waited for them to arrive. 

Grazing, in the outdoors, the camels kept their now familiar detachment. Grunted in unison, pulling on their short chains to scrap another mouthful with tongues dry as ever. Had all been lost before, taken from them in a small bazaar outside Cairo. Longed, through long lost nights of twisted children’s screamings, for the sand of their desert. Closed their large eyes and listened for the water washing, the Falukas of the Nile. Never had been given names, kept that hidden in their heart. No resistance as they followed, pony and mare ahead, to the menageries of wealth bankers, one captivity exchanged. 

Till finally only two brothers, four and five, hugged themselves against the dying elephant’s still breathing side, tears at their eyes. The secret signals useless now, the great mammals paralysed by men’s arms, powerless to play. The children drew shallow breath, in their fragility almost forgotten, discovered by an eager soul, an invader with advancement ahead, his executioner’s Abraham hand stayed by wiser council, still use for ones so young. Away, in bondage with the other prizes, to the pencil factories of the multinationals to attach erasers to the end. Then they burnt it to the ground. 

She took her thirty pieces, the betrayer, the girl hired to make the performances introductions, English too cryptic for the others’ gypsy tongues. She led them there, the dead of night, to have their evil way, and rewarded for her work. Wondered had she done wrong, the full flight flames in jigs, told to leave, now the deal was done, but they had shot the Indian elephants first, those creatures that had never felt the Gandhi sun. Looked into their small eyes, saw the strange language there, before pointing their automatic rifles. They had to show they meant business so they shot the elephants first.


First Published in Southword 8 December 2004