#217 v15,10.109

20th anniversay issue #4

for your reading pleasure, verse
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Havenít you wanted, sometimes, to walk into some painting, start a new life? The quiet blues of Monet would soothe but I donít know how long Iíd want to stay there. Today Iím in the mood for something more lively, say Lautrecís Demimonde. I want that glitter, heavy sequin nights. You take the yellow sunshine. I want the club scene that takes you out all night. Come on, wouldnít you, just for an evening or two? Gaslights and absinthe, even the queasy night after dawn. Wouldnít you like to walk into Montmartre where everything you did or imagined doing was de rigueur, pre-Aids with the drinkers and artists and whores? Donít be so P.C., so righteous youíd tell me you havenít imagined this? Give me the Circus Fernando, streets where getting stoned was easy and dancing girls kick high. Itís just the other side of the canvas, the thug life, a little lust. It was good enough for Van Gogh and Lautrec, Picasso. Canít you hear Satie on the piano? You wonít be able to miss Toulouse, bulbous lips, drool. Could you turn down a night where glee and strangeness is wide open? Think of Bob Dylan leaving Hibbing. A little decadence canít hurt. I want the swirl of cloth under changing colored lights, nothing square, nothing safe, want to can can thru Paris, parting animal nights, knees you canít wait to taste flashing

POETRYREPAIRS #217 v15,10.109


Nothing would be less shall we call it what it is, a clichť than April in Paris. But this poem got started with some thing I donít think I could do but it reminded me of Aprils and then three magazines came with Paris on the cover. Sometimes Iím amazed at all the places Iím not, lets say Paris since actually itís only March but in the magazines they are at outdoor cafes which must be quite chilly now. And I forgot the cigarette smoke, until I see many in the photographs are holding what Iím sure isnít a pen. I wondered how they can always be eating, biting and licking something sweet and still have the most gorgeous bodies. I wonder too how my friend, once an actress, so maybe thatís a clue, could dress up in scanty, naughty, as she puts it clothes for her husband while I am sitting here in baggy jeans and torn sweatshirts. Iím wondering if itís because heís lost his job and she is trying to cheer him up. I began thinking of Paris when she described the umbrella she decorated with drops of rain, how she just wore a garter belt under it. I thought of tear shaped drops of rain I made for the Junior Promís April in Paris, long before I felt the wind thru my hair on Pont Neuf. Itís there in the photograph which I hope is more original than the idea of the photograph because I plan to use it on my next book. I wish I could feel what she must, dolled up, trying to soothe this man and getting off on it. As for me, only imagining you, the one with fingers on me, holding me on the page of a book could make me as excited

POETRYREPAIRS #217 v15,10.109

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REPAIR: resort, frequent or habitual going; concourse or confluence of people at or in a place; making one's way; to go, betake oneself, to arrive; return to a place; to dwell; to recover, heal, or cure; to renew; to fix to original condition. -- Oxford English Dictionary

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Dave Chappelle, commedian-- "I support anyone's right to be who they want to be.
My question is:
To what extent do I have to participate in your self-image?'

- See more at: http://english.pravda.ru/opinion/columnists/01-09-2015/131779-guilty_of_history-0/#sthash.csIXfRw6.dpuf