paris | september | 2004, 2005, 2006
sadi ranson-polizzotti | chants & poems
poems written in Paris, 2004, 2005
& poems that relate back to Paris |
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sadi ranson-polizzotti, 2007
Ok: First things first. What the fuck
does JCB mean? I mean, I’ve been here
a while, yet still the sign eludes me. Oh sure,
I have un amour de Paris et aussi un amour de la langue
(especially yours love) and when you go to Zone 30 – Wow!
I pray it is parfum de femme – by this I mean not some
American Bar with some seedy American blonde.
You have no choice but to take the Metro. Each time I come across one of those irresistible booths that charge money to steal your soul ~ provided of course that you have one to steal. And what if this other blue book that is here on the bed as if disregarded and sad
Behind me a man sits with a woman on the plane each complaining Paris and of all things Parisian and of the Parisian airport security which I thought was quite good because all things all considered, I mean hey! There could be a radio program on just how much Paris sucks according to these two because even though I do love it, obviously they do not and oh what a bore, I mean Why Bother!!! Why even go or fly Air France , for heavens’ sake, or is it because it is now safer than American, perhaps perhaps, perhaps just in name alone? I do not know the answers to these questions only pose them here. Of course everyone speaks French on this fight: once again, it is Air France . Do I really need say more?
Before you kiss me you tell me, You have the perfect ass –
Heart-shaped in reverse. I dress in a pair of ivory
poppy panties, all lace and finery, Paris bought. You know
this is for you. This kiss is a kiss I will remember.
Paris, September 22, 2004 In three hours, Paris will simple be and we, we will be gone, our tea cups dry, our linens stacked, bags packed. We leave, the heart of the bed faintly
It was so simple and so not.
The father speaking French, me pigeon
bald a sinner. I kneeled, confessed as best
as I cold using all the words I knew – the hot
For two weeks in Paris I follow this routine: Morning, wash the skin Until it glows -- soft and luminous. Afternoons, remove the soft armor The lace about my breasts, So heavy and swollen With the love of you.
Do you see this love?
Do you see this, love?
How the past is but a bridge to the present,
so like the wide roads that lead to the Isle de la Cité
So here we are at Les Deux Magots
where people ‘spoke feverishly’ you tell me
as they drank their Pastis or their whiskey
or whatever was fashionable at the time and
Those girls were all narrow. Sticks, lovely in their silks they blurred to the horizon I watched as your eye followed and they receded watched you back, pout-lipped
It?s hard to pack up As if in packing we Were packing up altogether Giving up the plan That for two weeks Sustained us. The idea Of it, of us living here, So in love with the all of