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Poem
Early days as a flaneur;
I recall the couple 
On the Metro
When I was still innocent 
Of its labyrinthine complexities;
Slim pretty white girl,
Clad head to toe 
In new blue denim, 
Wistfully smiling
While her muscular black beau 
Stared straight through me 
With fathomless, fulgorous orbs;
And one of them spoke 
(Almost in a whisper):
"Qu'est-ce que t'en pense?"
Then it dawned on me...
The slender young Parisienne 
With the distant desirous eyes
Was no less male than I.
 
Being screamed at in Pigalle, 
And then howled at again 
By some kind of wild-eyed 
Drifter who told me to go 
To the Bois de Boulogne to seek 
What he clearly saw as my destiny;
Getting soused in Les Halles
With Sara
Who'd just seen Dillon as
Rusty James,
And was walking around in a daze;
Sara again with Jade
At the Caveau de la Huchette.
                                                                    
Cash squandered 
On a cheap gold-plated toothbrush, 
Portrait sketched at the Place du Tertre,
Paperback books 
By Symbolist poets,
Second hand volumes 
By Trakl and Deleve,
And a leather jacket from 
The flea market
At the Porte de Clignancourt.
                                                                    
Metro taken to Montparnasse, 
Where I slowly sipped
A demi blonde
In one of those brasseries
(Perhaps)
Immortalised by Brassai;
Bewhiskered old man
In a naval officer's cap,
His table bestrewn
With empty wine bottles
And cigarette butts,
Repeatedly screeched the name
"Phillippe!" until a bartender
With patent leather hair,
Filled his wineglass to the brim,
With a mock-obsequious:
"Voila, mon Captaine!"
                                                                    
I cut into the Rue du Bac,
Traversed the Pont Royal,
Briefly beheld
Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois,
With its gothic tower,
Constructed only latterly,
In order that
The 6th Century church
Might complement
The style of the remainder
Of the 1er Arrondissement,
Before steering for the
Place du Chatelet,
And onwards...Les Halles!
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