cigarette

I had just finished the coffee,
(it was heavy black and colombian)
and I saw the steely blue stillness of the sky
and thought, "I'll have a cigarette"
and did just that.
barefooted,
in a loose black linen shirt.
I felt like some ancient maharishi
lost in the autumn of a foreign land.
the treeline starved by the cold.
I scratched three matches illuminated
caught it slightly before the impish wind extinguished them.
the window nearest was black
nearly opaque,
it mirrored the whole of my figure
and I stood
bearded,
the smoke coming in great billows
from between my cracked and bleeding lips,
like the very gate of the akeldama
black eyes and thick hair.
as I saw myself now
I wondered what had been seen
in this confused child of a man.
I wondered
how a man I could ever be called,
and I wondered why
I had believed them
when I alone
knew how truly childish
I truly was.

nachkriegszeit

the lean and tall grasses
shifted in the late october wind.
it whistled past the curling vines
and the wheat stalks
that had sprung
over the bones of serfs,
long tempered on
carcassone soil.
roger emerged from dull light of the kitchen
into the brisk white noon.
assam tea, here.
it was black as night.
I should believe your arrival
especially serendipitous
in light of the circumstances.
the circumstances being,
in roger's case
the communicae from berlin
and his recent discharge.
serendipitous, or lucky.
they call it heureux hasard here.
we seated ourselves in no.14 chairs on the veranda.
the gramophone on the table sat idly
with roger's service cap mounted upon it.
how was paris?
it was. didn't you see it
in the war?
not the way it is now.
no,
no I suppose not.
if there was anything to see
then the germans took it when they left.
there wasn't much in berlin,
roger said. only skeletons.
the same in paris.
all the partisans had suicided
the only ones left
were the ones fat enough not to starve.
tell me roger
if all our brightest died fighting
then who will be left
to carry the fire?
the lights are dim over europe,
some, in remembrance
others still in fear.
is that why you left paris?
because its lights were too dim?
because you were not bright enough
to see in the dark?
I left
because I saw nothing had changed.
six months passed,
like so many storms
the trains of france
ran on time.
the evenings consumed
with the bitter anomie
that autumn brought:
solace in cards
the dark and smoky nightclubs of pigalle place,
the stoicism so eagerly embraced
became a badge
to dejected friends
who saw the descent
and pondered the violence.
the letters and stipends that no longer arrived,
the montmartre apartment
piled high with old newspapers
bach records, cigarette stubs
savile row suits stained and frayed
a typewriter pawned for a train ticket
where sunshine would cure me of my needs.
the sun hangs over the pyrenees.
in spain, lorca lies in a shallow grave
a decade too early
for heroism.
in poland
the war goes on unheard.
the war.
she went back to the war.
standing over the Seine in the rain
the wind catches the tails of the gray coat like a whip.
the train returns to the mother
who wears an iron veil,
go back to the war,
and I won't follow.

machine gun

babylon

it could have been
babylon
and I was in
captivity.
the door at place theroux
was sickly green
and iron
under a portico arrayed
in paper lanterns
and verdant gardens.
I knocked and
it opened itself,
into a white foyer
and a white hall
where a dwarven mime
carried a tray of cocktails.
I lit up.
all the cigarettes
in the salon
looked like fireflies from here.
I went down the marble hall
under the eyes of old kings
borne in oils and pastel.
the drawing room
was thick with butane and cologne
and the great whiteness
had embraced the black night.
in the center
was a great chaise longue
louis quatorze,
with golden bees on velvet.
they were drinking here
and there was the sound
of a bosendorfer piano.
I loosened my paisley tie
and asked the greying tapster
for a ramos gin fizz.
he used a raw egg,
as those elder in the trade often do.
I took a slug and went
back into the salon
saw her in a dress of chinese blue
her hair was shiny and close,
like the down of a bird
and very châtain.
bonjour.
bonjour, monsieur.
is this your first time here?
yes.
words became elusive.
there are a lot of people here.
yes, there are.
she was half-french and she spoke a little.
her perfume had head notes of bergamot,
and her teeth
very white, with sharp canines.
how old are you?
twenty-two.
so am I.
and what sign?
scorpio.
all my lovers are scorpio...
she had a lot of eyeliner on.
it suited her.
listen, I have to talk to someone.
alright.
wait right here.
I took another drink.
I didn't wait.
they were playing basset
in the dining room
with a deck of russian cards.
everyone in pinstripes,
I put my money down
played recklessly
lost.
the gin fizz doing its work.
I didn't want to love her
it was too much like fate.
she came into the room
dragged me out of the chair
by the wrinkled arm of a winchester shirt
left my francs on the table to molder
and scolded me for fleeing.
I don't like the dogfights
the logistics
the manoeuvres
that's what I told her
in the hall
I told her I had cut off
my captain's gold braid
I'd burned my stripes
I didn't fight wars anymore.
and I spat
between my second glass
something about helen of troy.
she wasn't a very good listener.
she stole a pomengranate
that bled across her lips
as we walked alone
through the vacant seraglio.
she smoked a blonde gitane,
and I a caporal gauloise
jeunesse doree
in our vile bodies.
her sphinx eyes were sinister
and her voice false
she, the sacred prostitute
just standing there
looking at me.
I hated her enough
to rake my glass
across her paper white skin
cursed her family name
I didn't, just stood
and stared back
while in the salon
the band played autumn leaves.
the couples were sipping beaujolais
sweating under ascot collars, the men wondered
about anthony eden, algiers
the suez canal, guns on the nile
the star of david
and the old grandee, whose son
had died at mers-el-kebir
he mourned the end of the imperial century.
and I lounged with Ishtar
and her young flesh
for sure this was babylon,
and antarctica was close.
in the salon
her face had grown much whiter now,
and her cigarette had made her cold
I took her outside
to the balcony
where the ivory and dew
shimmered in the moonlight
she wrapped me up in her arms
heavy with mink
she bit at the lily on my blue vest
I confessed I didn't love her
and she called me a liar.
take me inside,
I want to lie down.
and so she followed
through the sleeping remnants
of the adulterous nouveau riche.
and the naked hour of cinq a sept
to a boudoir undisturbed
and the blue wallpaper of the fourth empire.
more bees on a blue bed
columns of moorish wood.
she took off her sable coat
and sat on the edge,
her mandarin collar was now undone.
humming stardust
I searched the drawers for
the poison of rich men.
soon it would be dawn
and tasting whiskey, I thought
after this, I could make it myself
take a train
without the newspapers
without the roulettes
do it alone.
I felt her breath on my neck
it was cold, and her lips
crimson with pomengranate
this time alone, this time
caressing her thigh under
the singapore satin
she told me she was going back
to poland.
that was alright, I thought
as we fell back, sliding on the silk
people always bored me anyway.

pariahville - excerpt

His shirt was black and white seersucker, well-pressed. On the white satin lapel of his black blazer, an variegated white carnation had been pinned neatly. He looked like a true southern gentleman; and he bared his bright teeth with slow-burning deviance.
But he was alone, in the center of the room, shuffling ever closer to the boomerang table and the pile of well-worn records that glistened dully under the New Orleans crimson lamplight. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t stop. Just moving, two-stepping to the keyboards.
The clean-looking Bang and Olaf was nestled into the armoire on the wall space between the living room and the kitchen where Neal was mixing drinks and laughing, bragging to the guests. Faye was on the balcony, watching traffic in a mint smoke haze. Julia Romanov sifted through the numerous vinyls, before finding an early British pressing of Last Year’s Model, the first letters cut off on the cover.
The beat played. Jack shook his head up and down, lips pursed, he saw the woman in his sights. Odile with her loose linen shirt and her pleated black pants, tight on toned thighs. Odile with her hand-rolled cigarette and her Swedish sunglasses. His blood ran strong. The tunnel vision set in.
Odile with her bare white feet. Odile, sans brassiere. He took a hit from the green flask of Jameson in his right hand. The whiskey made him stupid, the beer made him bitter. He was a hunter. He kissed the St. Christopher that dangled from his neck. He licked his fingers and twisted his brown curls.
He sashayed, somewhat clumsily, catching his steps on Cuban heels. The shag carpet was very thick and very white, and so was the loose shirt that hung over Odile, and her very sharp shoulders, spying him with her arms outstretched like a Sufi dancer.
For to Odile he was not the hunter, but the prey. Her eyes turned to slits, she slipped a narrow tongue from the corner of her mouth and advanced, feet arched, fingers running down the wrinkled face of his seersucker shirt, she gave him a too-knowing smile, showing more gum than pearly tooth…
Their noses touched. The bass throbbed, they moved as one. No one was watching. Jack forgot about Faye. He realized it was the greatest moment of his life and it was painted upon his face like a great sign on the neon strip. His left hand reached for hers, his right ran down the side of her Hellenic body feeling for any imperfection.
The keyboards started again. Julia Romanov had her eyes closed and Odile touched the side of her nose against Jack’s and held his hand tightly and ran her own up his neck and bit his lip. She exhaled and stood on the top of her toes as if she had been struck by lightning and Jack continued to smile. He continued to melt.
He kept at kissing her. He became hungry for it. He thought about taking her by the hips and falling onto the loveseat. He thought about it. They wrestled with eachother. The petals from the carnation lilted towards the carpet. Faye had finished her cigarette.

elegy written in an autumn churchyard

the alarm clock is ringing
three hours too late!
what a mess we've made
of these blankets,
of our souls.
someone open a goddamn window
I'm boiling alive in my own sweat
matted hair, tangled limbs
who the hell invented this?
there, that's better.
it's cold outside and clean
cool, clean november air
see that gray sunshine
over the skinny skeleton trees
embrace it,
that belonging-ness
that kind disregard for tomorrow.
just that cold blue gray sun
steely bicycle rider afternoon
made for six-button navy blazers.
I like you with your glasses on
I like your sharp teeth
I like your barely-hidden lechery
don't compliment me,
you liar.
liar, I laugh.
that's not the first time...
pouring coffee while
she brushes her teeth
reveling in the real honest
unabashed dishevelment,
I don't smile, just groan
move to the deck chair
cigarette wet-limp
between wet-limp lips
pretending to be on a Havana steamer.
poached eggs for breakfast,
my toes touch the dew
with the Stones record on
grit my teeth. taking deep breaths
sharp and unsure of the future
I take out a notebook
and start numbering my days
she puts out her hand
she wants me to dance
the song is "connection"
so bare feet on concrete
I stop caring about my clumsiness,
the violet-striped bathrobe sashays.
I can't dance, I can't love
nothing is right
everything is gray
she smiles sweetly
and says
don't worry.
oh no no no
wrapping one another
in scarfs
houndstooth and cashmere,
respectively.
a lovely bicycle ride
to the cemetery
seeing children on the sidewalks
clinging to red balloons
waving.
behind sunshades, there are sad eyes
sitting dreaming against headstones
sucking on the red-striped straws
of chocolate milkshakes
wanting nothing more
than to kiss your mouth
november days
will we always spend our time
sitting, waiting
or in each other's arms?
the sunshine on the buttons of my coat
makes me think back to winters past
and graveyard paths
with friends on the wayside.
the breeze carries sad youth
I long for you,
wistful winter
making me miss
all the things I never felt
that I would.

bad october

I am back to the machine gun
it is gray and ugly outside,
the plateaus obscured
by rain and fog
and the fury of the coastal winds
driven heartward by hot santa anas.
I am back to the machine gun
she is gray like the skies
and the rough paint is chipping
from the underside of her carriage.
the lamp is hot and gold
and we are alone.
please keep lecturing me
there is nothing I need more now
than your brilliant advertisements
of young naivete.
it's becoming more and more evident
that glaring character flaws
are exemplar
of how interesting all lovers are,
but you can all take your double standards
and play the roman fool.
I'd rather be an old man
than be counted useless and hollow
living for a day that will never arrive,
pretending to be content.
and so I
sidelined by the culture
not cynical enough for her tastes
too much of a bastard for her's
clinging to my tattered banner
"at least I have principles"
but they're fading fast
and the jacobins are putting me on trial
for the sins of yesterday.
I'm sure if Marat knew that it would end this way
he would've drowned himself in his bathtub.
after enough of the same faces
the effects of gravity become
much more apparent.
and after hearing all their graven exploits,
I can only think
this is not what I wanted
these are not the stories I want to tell
every sordid detail
propagated for posterity.
is it too late?
it drives me to filth and embarrassment
lying under the same grey sky
I wake to the afternoon sun
and start the long walk
back to the land of the living
delivering apologies on the way.
gone is my era of steak and eggs
midnight coffee and rainy drives
to be replaced by that of
2 AM confessions and clenched fists.
eyes too tired to weep
for the lack of honest friend or lover,
and the crimes of which
I am guilty.