Terry Collett May 10

I read to him
from Kierkegaard
he read Dostoevsky.

We lay on the bed
in our Parisian room
in that cheap hotel.

We had the narrow window
open to the evening
smells and sounds.

We are going out later
for  a meal and drinks
soak in the atmosphere
the art
the lives
the history.

We made love
some hour ago
still there
that after glow.

We played
our sex games
that sexual foreplay.

I close
the Kierkegaard book
Benny shuts
the Dostoevsky
with a smile.

Best get ready
I say
into something cool.

He nods at me
and lies there
eyeing me
as I undress
piece by piece.

I go into
the shower.

I guess he's
to the water run
imaging me
in his mind
having his
own inner fun.

Terry Collett Apr 26

Parisian summer
I had showered and shaved
except for the moustache
which I kept.

Felt tired
although I slept.

Sonya was
by the window
looking out
at the Paris
street below
from our cheap
hotel room.

The Solzhenitsyn book
lay face down
on the bed
I decided to read
the Dostoevsky book

She smoked
hand holding
an elbow.

I dried myself
viewing her
fine figure
her behind quite neat
naked feet.

Think of all those
famous people who
lived here in Paris
she said.

Henry Miller
Ezra pound
Joyce and those
great artists
and even Hitler
came briefly
so I read.

Now all
of them dead
she said.

Now we are here
I said
just ordinary folk
who like to dine
and wine and kiss
and poke and joke.

That waiter
last night
in that restaurant
he eyed me
ever so much
she said.

Guess he did
I said
but what's in that
he probably eyes
all the dames
that come and go
then goes home
to his lonely room
and lonely life
or ugly wife.

Guess so
she said
walking back
to the bed
and lying down
stubbing out
her cigarette
in the ashtray
by the bed.

Shall we before
we go out?
she said.

So I lay
beside her
and it was
a Parisian summer.

The room was small
and bed hard
but we did
before we went out
cars hooted
people called
or gave shout.

Terry Collett Apr 26

I lay beside
Miss Pinkie
in her bed
in her flat.

It was morning
was vacuuming
in the flat upstairs
footsteps back
and forth.

There was a sliver
of daylight
where her curtains
didn't meet.

I turned over
and gazed
at her sleeping
eyes closed
eyelids like pink

Her mouth open
breathing shallow.

She was old enough
to be my mother
just about.

Her hair
was in a mess
not neat
as it usually was.

We'd made love
a few times in
the late evening
and night
it wasn't hot sex
but it was all right.

She said
she'd entered
a convent
with her cousin
when they were 18
she left
but her
cousin stayed.

Seemed a bit kinky
with an ex-nun
wonder what
the bishop
would say
if he could see
how she lay
I mused.

My mouth was dry
I needed a drink
to wake me up
for real.

She opened
her eyes
and stared at me.

Her hand wandering
back towards me
wanting to feel.


Viva la France
Sonya said drunkenly
as we ascended the stairs
to our small room
in the cheap hotel
in Montparnasse.

She swayed at the top
of the stairs outside
our narrow room door.

I love Paris
she said
and tried to put
the key in the keyhole.

Why does it not fit?
she said.

Here let me
I said
and took the key
and opened the door.

She went in
and I followed.

We'd been arguing
in the cafe about philosophy
she and her Kierkegaard
and me picking holes in it
and pushing
my mixed up Marxism.

She flopped on the bed
arms wide
she said loudly.

The windows open
the curtains flapping
in the evening air.

I guess most of Paris
can know that now
I said
looking down
on the narrow
street below
the Rue something
or other.

Come here
now to me
she said
softer more
beckoning me
with her finger.

Want another
drink too
she said.

I went to the small table
and opened
the bottle of wine
we had and poured
her a glass for  us both
and handed her one.

She gulped it down
that is better
she said.

I sipped mine
and gazed at her
lying there.

She put the glass
on the bedside table
and lay there.

Undress me
she said gently.

I went over
and began
to undress her
but she went to sleep.

I left her be
and lay beside her
the sex would keep.

Terry Collett Mar 15

Miss Pinkie put on
the Puccini arias
(she dropped the Mrs
when her husband
went off with the air
hostess bitch
he was working with)
and bought me a scotch
into her lounge.

You what to stay
the night?
She said.

If I can my sister's
got a man friend
staying over and I said
he could have my bed.

She sipped her scotch
and looked at me.

What about
my reputation?
She said.

I can sleep
in the spare bed
I said.

But people might
see you leaving
in the early hours
and still come
to the same conclusion
she said smiling.

Guess they would
I said.

The Tosca aria
was being sung
by some dame.

Do you promise
to be good?
Miss Pinkie said.

Aren't I always?
I said.

She sipped the scotch  
mostly so
she said
but you'll have
to leave discretely
can't have you
waltzing out of here
in plain daylight
or the neighbours
will talk.

I will be
as discrete
as I can
I said.

We sipped our drinks
and the La Boheme aria started
this is my favourite
she said looking at me
putting a hand
on my thigh.

Mine too
I said
finishing my booze.

She put down
the glasses
and turned to me
and said
you feeling tired?

No not yet
I replied.

Good let's go
to bed then
she said.

So we went
and she turned
out the light
and we walked
to her room
lit up by moonlight
and undressed
and got into bed.

The Puccini arias
still being sung
and Miss Pinkie
sang along in her
soft soprano.

I lay beside her
feeling along her thigh
and she stopped singing
and let out a sigh.


Sonya was puking
in the bidet
in the small hotel room
in Paris
after too much
bad booze.

Benny lay in bed
reading Dostoevsky.

The radio
was pushing out
Mahler's 6th
her puking played
along side.

Can I help?
he said.

She returned moans
and another round
of puking.

No sex tonight
he mused
putting the book down
and looking towards
the small shower room.

He got off the bed
and went to
the shower room
and opened the door.

Can I be
of any assistance?
he said
looking at her
kneeling there over
the bidet.

She shook her hand
and waved a hand.

He took note
of her lovely legs
her two feet
heels facing
her fine ass
smiling at him.

He went out
and closed the door
and the puking
went on as before.


It rained after we left
the Musée d'Orsay
and Sonya and I
had to run for cover.

She looked beautiful
in the rain
(she looked
beautiful anyway).

We stood underneath
a canvas covering
with others,
who also ran for shelter.

How romantic it looks
Paris in the rain,
she said.

I sensed the dampness
sinking through the cloth
of my jacket;
it didn't feel
romantic to me.

I've seen paintings
of Paris in the rain,
I said,
I remember seeing
this pavement artist
chalking a picture of Paris
and the rain came down
and he went
and the picture
became a murkiness
of colour.

The other people
spoke in French.

Nous sommes des touristes,
she said to them.

They nodded and smiled
and looked at me.

Maybe they thought
I looked like that guy
with a beard
in the Renoir painting,
I mused.

Sonya spoke
to them in French
and I watched
her talking;
the curve of her body,
her blonde hair
over her shoulders.

I wished
we were back
in the hotel
in the bed.

Let us go
have a coffee
some place,
she said.

The rain had paused,
so off we went
to find a small cafe;
another Parisian tour
and dull day.

Terry Collett Dec 2016

And the waiter said
Puis-je vous aider?

You looked at Sonya
who said in fine French
two coffees
and croissants please.

Oui madame
the waiter said.

You watched her features
how she sat
her blonde hair
long and loose
from bands or ribbons.

I love the Renoir print
in the cafe
we went into last night
she said.

You listened
but did not reply.

I could see you
in the man
she added.

Which man?
You said.

The young man
sitting at the table
looking at the girl
and her dog
the man with
the fine moustache
she said.

The one with
the boater hat?
You asked.

Yes that's the one
she said.

And you remember thinking
as you looked at the painting
why put a dog on the table
with food and wine and glasses?

The waiter came
with coffees
and croissants and went off.

Sonya sipped her coffee
you nibbled the croissant
she talked about art
and Renoir.

But you were
only half listening
you were recalling
how beautiful she looked
in bed the night before
her hair spread out
on the pillow
as was she spread
on the double springy
ancient bed.

Terry Collett Oct 2016

She lies there
on the floor
of our room
in that cheap
small hotel
in Paris.

I wonder
who else has
lain naked
on this floor
wanting sex
in the raw?
Sonya asks.

You look like
a model
for Degas,
I answer.

Come on then
don't dither
standing there
like the Pope
at a down
town orgy,
she tells me.

I undress
taking off
my black jeans,
and tee shirt,
and boxers.

The small white
in the room
oozes out
a Mozart

Now undressed
I watch her
taking in
her plump fruits
and blonde thatch.

I descend
upon her
and harpoon
her softly
(my well known
party trick),
with my young
Moby Dick.

Terry Collett Sep 2016

Sonya loves
Paris streets
white French wine

fresh French food
and our room
with shutters

now open
sounds of night

to come in
I put down
my Russian

crime novels
as she lies
naked there

on the bed
some Bartok
on the white

playing out
you ready?

She asks me
lying there
I'm ready

I tell her
turning off
the room light

making do
with street light
entering now

the wide bed
feeling her
beside me

her warm flesh
she kisses
her soft lips

kissing mine
her small hands
seeking out

my pecker
stirring up
the blood line

while my hands
explore her

soft ripe fruits
her valleys
her taut peaks

someone speaks
in French tongue
from the white

Bartok's gone
Bach begins

some music
Baroque stuff
we kiss hot

bodies move
to music
sounds invade

our memories
as we start
making love

with streets sounds
and lamp lights
and moon glow

and star shine
and waiting

two glasses
with clear ice
of French wine.

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