Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Feb 2015
Paris is burning.
Tar streets boil in ecstasy as cobblestones shudder in fear.
The city is ablaze, a cataclysmic uproar,
multitudes of disheveled artisans carrying scorched canvasses,
singed paintbrushes and smoldering memory kits,
each individually packaged in flesh encased animal bags.
Flames leap from every heart,
racing down fire escapes into the arms of loved ones
who fret in the streets below.
Sidewalks hiss "Pleeeeassse"
then explode in a thunderous
"OH NO!"

Paris is burning.
Her watercolor tears, not out of sadness
but out of habit.
Rainbow stains for sinners and gentle madmen alike.
It's the end of love.

Paris is burning.
City officials, wearing smoke scented jackets and incandescent alibis,
(both in dire need of laundering),
tell ethnic jokes to the starving hordes of pressmen and reporters
who clamor impatiently outside.
A thousand horrible deaths search through the rubble
for possible survivors, insuring that there are none.
"these two rabbis walk into a bar, see.."

Paris is burning.
Centuries, like antique floral wallpaper,
turn brown, then curl at the edges,
rising in a spiral of thick, black,
gargoyle infested smoke.
It's the end of love.

Paris is burning.
C'est l'aroma fantastique in the air,
ah, but what is it? Escargot? Et vignon, flambeau, of course,
charred bouef, roast canard a l'orange, merci beaucoup;
Don't forget the '59 Cabernet du Normandy,
sipped slowly at a favored cafe but no, wait,
what is this, no.
It has all gone now, up in flames, all up in flames
so, you go to eat at the new McDonalds,
at the foot of the Eiffel Tower,
built in nineteen eighty-four
by a group of devout new-worlders and,
in the spirit of goodwill and brotherhood
that generally pervades these types of events,
shipped to France in a peaceful exchange
for another sculptural wonder,
the Statue of You-Know-Whatitty.
The enormous expense of this
gargantuan publicly funded project
was explained to the funding public as
a "social experiment", a test
to resolve, once and for all,
which of these two nations
is technologically superior to the other,
by determining which of the icons of modern civilization,
the fast food chain or the statue,
will best endure the ravages of time,
but alas, now,
as both the Tower de Eiffel and the Arches of Gold
are melting into one grande candle du ****,
France, it would seem, is up by one.

"Paris is burning", I thought,
"it's the end of love.",
when I first noticed the young hitchhiker standing by the road,
both lovely and lonely as life itself.
"Get in", I muttered, whilst the Louvre exploded
and was incinerated in the
thermonuclear meltdown at Chernobyl;
the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame were defeated at Waterloo,
and Quasimodo was traded to Cleveland for two femme fatales,
plus a hero to be named at a later date;
Joan of Arc got burned in an insider trading scandal;
Marie-Antoinette gave head to the Reichstag when
Napoleon deserted;
Descartes was discarded along with some rocks, worms and trees;
while the Seine simply evaporated,
and, two weeks later,
fell as rain over Nagasaki.

You see, my desire for her was so overpowering,
I would gladly have burned down any city
that she might have asked me to.

"Have you heard?",
I asked, as she got into the car,
lightly brushing my thigh with her hand,
"Paris is burning.
It's the end of love..."
(c) 1983 PreMortem Publishing
Mahatma Jones
Written by
Mahatma Jones  Portland, OR
(Portland, OR)   
   Middle Class
Please log in to view and add comments on poems