I think, my first legit poem on Paris.
Secret bubbles
we landed wide-eyed ready to replace
our blood with wine
our lungs with cigarettes and
complex perfumes wafting from distinguished old ladies and long-legged Giselles
water tasted a little stale
but food richer and the côtes du rhone
something we’ve always known
bottles upon bottles of ruby liquid emptied themselves into
mismatched glasses chipped flutes des verres des tasses and mugs
melted wax and empty plates and
of course the diminishing lucky strikes signaled the time
after frustrating liquored attempts at a cab
we drive by the softly lit Louvre or
across the shimmery Seine or pass the stoic Panthéon
always under the indigo Paris sky glowing with clouds
we silently delight in them in our drunken haze
the city dusted with snow
the Pont Neuf wore the powder like a new fur coat
nonchalantly teasing the grey skies
as we listened translucent ears like children
in front of an illustrated fairy tale narrated by none other than the great Christina Von Kohler
she led us through her magical city with graceful feline steps
a smokey trail behind her
we have meals
decadent meats cooked à point tender with meticulous preparation
sauces that exhaust our tingling taste buds of adjectives
more wine more cigarettes juicy kirs in short fat glasses
dine to pass the time stewing in glorious french cuisine and
the never dull conversations of art music and monuments
Lady Gaga lost lovers on trains Kooples cheeky babies
love of all things
Napoleon macaroons Géant Casino madeleines old ladies
push carts more wine more cigarettes
start our night
dans le cours
bordeaux and
pungent cheese and gauloises
burgundy rings patterning the plastic table or
that familiar red awning on the corner
short gray marble
tables and chairs chained together like faithful dogs
the flow of hipsters
model posses
bobos Norwegians and Poles
marriage proposals new faces lurking old faces
fiery lesbian bartenders and
constant lack of fire but never fur
furry hats furry faces and wine
more wine
the middle is always a hazy blur of expensive
mint infused cocktails strange men strange music
strange dancing
walking more than we need to towards somewhere
better and unknown on awkwardly pronounced street names
in the Marais or around Oberkampf
never too cold at this point after
flailing our arms and bobbing our heads on
empty dance floors
we draw on every blank windshield
hearts love faces giggles general silliness
finally wide open spaces welcome our
wanderings by topping off our last pitcher and
we devour toasties our lids heavy shifty rugby fans
hurrahing in the back
our thoughts are of
beds or the tile floor in front of the heater or
poulet rôti
on especially cold nights
its a bathtub bodies and cigarettes smoke mixing
with the swirling steam slowly drifting out of the
tiny window into the chilled 3am air and more wine straight
from the bottle now tangled limbs feet and nothing but
underthings we marinate in the nostalgia the swirls of
our nightly escapades and dreams and guiltily pleasures
and a splash of wine
melt into skin as we attempt to distill this wonderful bubble
into something we can carry secretly in our pockets
we landed wide-eyed ready to replace
our blood with wine
our lungs with cigarettes and
complex perfumes wafting from distinguished old ladies and long-legged Giselles
water tasted a little stale
but food richer and the côtes du rhone
something we’ve always known
bottles upon bottles of ruby liquid emptied themselves into
mismatched glasses chipped flutes des verres des tasses and mugs
melted wax and empty plates and
of course the diminishing lucky strikes signaled the time
after frustrating liquored attempts at a cab
we drive by the softly lit Louvre or
across the shimmery Seine or pass the stoic Panthéon
always under the indigo Paris sky glowing with clouds
we silently delight in them in our drunken haze
the city dusted with snow
the Pont Neuf wore the powder like a new fur coat
nonchalantly teasing the grey skies
as we listened translucent ears like children
in front of an illustrated fairy tale narrated by none other than the great Christina Von Kohler
she led us through her magical city with graceful feline steps
a smokey trail behind her
we have meals
decadent meats cooked à point tender with meticulous preparation
sauces that exhaust our tingling taste buds of adjectives
more wine more cigarettes juicy kirs in short fat glasses
dine to pass the time stewing in glorious french cuisine and
the never dull conversations of art music and monuments
Lady Gaga lost lovers on trains Kooples cheeky babies
love of all things
Napoleon macaroons Géant Casino madeleines old ladies
push carts more wine more cigarettes
start our night
dans le cours
bordeaux and
pungent cheese and gauloises
burgundy rings patterning the plastic table or
that familiar red awning on the corner
short gray marble
tables and chairs chained together like faithful dogs
the flow of hipsters
model posses
bobos Norwegians and Poles
marriage proposals new faces lurking old faces
fiery lesbian bartenders and
constant lack of fire but never fur
furry hats furry faces and wine
more wine
the middle is always a hazy blur of expensive
mint infused cocktails strange men strange music
strange dancing
walking more than we need to towards somewhere
better and unknown on awkwardly pronounced street names
in the Marais or around Oberkampf
never too cold at this point after
flailing our arms and bobbing our heads on
empty dance floors
we draw on every blank windshield
hearts love faces giggles general silliness
finally wide open spaces welcome our
wanderings by topping off our last pitcher and
we devour toasties our lids heavy shifty rugby fans
hurrahing in the back
our thoughts are of
beds or the tile floor in front of the heater or
poulet rôti
on especially cold nights
its a bathtub bodies and cigarettes smoke mixing
with the swirling steam slowly drifting out of the
tiny window into the chilled 3am air and more wine straight
from the bottle now tangled limbs feet and nothing but
underthings we marinate in the nostalgia the swirls of
our nightly escapades and dreams and guiltily pleasures
and a splash of wine
melt into skin as we attempt to distill this wonderful bubble
into something we can carry secretly in our pockets