Left bank beards in Beat hotel rooms, a boulangerie breakfast down the street and to the left, and for lunch fresh baked bread and brie. Letters sent home to fathers and mothers singing sweet serenades of Paris dressed up in autumn shades, cheques for the royalties that'll get them to Belize to write and swoon, chat up ladies in the early afternoon; where hotel fees that are treble those in the 5th, bookshop stalls that'll never be found another closing-down-establishment myth.
They were climbing with oxygen long before we came along, base camp poems written under floor lamplight right before the eyes of others. Jett powered prose and wine in the light sleight-of-hand punctuation and uptight editors looking for finer narration.
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