Madmazel, are you okay?

On the corner of
Rue Saint Lazare and the NotreDame de Lorette
Traffic lights spill into too sweet French wine
Streets smell of Pervert
Or he smelled on them
Now I do
And everyone who should be here is here
Although we always crave those who are not
Don’t we?
Some is passing by
Asking for money for cigarettes
I take off my shoes
Cause
It doesn’t matter in which shoes you walk
When you walk down the streets of Paris
(for some of us)
I’m at my beginning
I’ve always been good at farewells
(Only then i am incredibly good)
I would make a poem from the last goodbye
But what shall I do with the beginnings
The beginnings are the confirmation that I will forget everything
Already loomed oblivion
Over carefree mornings
Dry wine
The hug in which i felt so safe
Your beautiful features and strong shoulders
The narrow streets and darkness where you loved me.
The road will make me forget
This lovely miles will make me forget
What caressed and what broke all my previous lives
That one with you too.
And I squeeze the remains between my knees
I keep memories
I keep Kotor
I keep places for which no one will ever know
Of which nobody will be able to remind me
So i write poems
I write poems for you
You have the poems boy
I god them too.
We, poets
We are fairies and witches
Psychopaths with the warm heart
Able to create the separate worlds
To freeze the moments forever.
I’m afraid to forget the story in which there is no more me or you
I’m afraid that the paper is not enough for it
But you said I am insane
while you lit a cigarette, not understanding any of my thoughts.
We, poets
We are fairies and witches
Psychopaths with the warm heart
Able to create the separate worlds
To freeze the moments forever.
In Paris, Lisbon, Barcelona
I am far away
Still not far enough
To escape the paper
So, on the corner of Rue Saint Lazare and the Notre Dame de Lorette, I have you.
”I love you” has happened
Didn’t it?
Just have to read two lines before.
I soak my thoughts with wine
I lean my them to the beginning
Over and over again reliving that story
(just one more time)
Cause i told you,
i like to make a poem for the end
To run through the poem
It to run through my throat,
spine,
crotch.
Someplace between the end and the beginning
I leave it:
your lips on my skin
your sighs in my ear
your fingers in my hair
your promises
your attempt to be someone else for me
(as that could be easy)
your abandonment
your spite
you in me.
You died in me when i fell into the arms of Paris
I stabbed our chest with a pen
Easily
With some Koop island blues
With few drinks
And few cigarettes
Blurred view for a moment
And one:
”Madmazel, are you okay?”

 

Paris, June ’16.

 

13728922_1106902036024918_29458856652026951_n

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s