soak up the side streets of Montmartre,
Paris, Pigalle on Boulevard de Clichy
class less art combusts then drips
- street beggars & tourists cant
writer Rubbish pastes lace traceries
ala mode decoupaging decay
his cut-paper layers grace anoint
no longer anonymous walls
stencilist C215’s “simply a cat”
defies sourpusses not to smile—see
heaven art yes art with style
the banality of poverty held at bay
pureed souffléd life wolfed-down
colors synced
spray-cannoned Lothario’s like David Walker
entrance Picasso’s on the brink,
Romani-hearted paint peddlers
of the Republique
- street beggars & tourists cant
Thom Thom’s décollage rip-cuts
the billboard scene titillates the unseen
—culture-lovers—can-canned Lautrec’s
bedded with Che Guevara politics
come tilt with the masse
come play your part
in Montmartre
near Pigalle on Boulevard de Clichy
where wicked pissers defy
cliché
First Published in Clockwise Cat January 2015
eyes have become
resolute,
wandering the walls
and fixtures
roaming epoch,
hands that mercury envies
read the craters,
and each aperture glows
with sterling egress,
lips part as two half’s
of miracles,
and the first tide
rolled to birth,
as quicksilver lies with
the stars,
cannoned beauty falls
in silver ribbons,
writhing bound
and full this night,
eclipsed
in sheets of moon
She’ll trumpet a mid-summer’s lilac revolution
To smash and grab and take your affection
A twinkled-eyed assault of sweet-toothed pleasure
On half-composed clarity’s measure
She’ll launch a pillow-cannoned war
On every certainty of beauty you had before
She throws light around like a star in the sky
Even her sleepy exhaust is a heavenly sigh
She gilds the clouds on drizzling days
She makes hope smile by her vibrant ways
If her lover embraced her in all her truth
She would be her lover’s fountain of youth
In moonshine night of wine and song
With gypsy-like fever she’ll wring out the wrong
She’ll dance and in dancing burlesque
Ideals of woman and grace painted picturesque –
By the moralistic mentors of caged-bird blues.
How this bluebird’s a phoenix by night’s fiery hues!
In hangover mornings of tangled heart-strings
Within the houses of healing you’ll hear she still sings
Of undesired responsibilities in a shaky jilted voice
A dew-soaked ballad to sunrise to which your only choice
Is to cater to her jazzy Simone-like disposition
To every her wiled whim, to her warmth, to her lilac revolution
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