Au coin de cet organe,
Y caressant ses cordes sensibles,
Ma Muse Toscane
Joue de sa lyre irrésistible.

Un son, pour chaque mot
D'amour qui deviennent
Inspiration ; et le tempo
S'adoucit, d'aussi **** que je m'en souvienne !

Car il n'y a que le cerveau
Qui s'imagine que l'italienne
Devrait m'offrir sa peau de porcelaine.

Mon pauvre cerveau,
Cet espèce d'organe maso,
Me pense libertino !

Tes cheveux de braise,
Peu semblables à ceux des autres marseillaises ;
Et tes beaux yeux !
Ah... Plus prêts de moi, je les veux !

Et ton parfum exotique,
Dans le creux où se réfugie
Ta croix catholique ;
Dans ma tête, tout s'assagit !

Ton corps aphroditien,
Enfant bénie du feu,
Si tu le veux, je suis tiens...
– Muse ! Tu fais des envieux.

Tu es précieuse
Comme une nébuleuse.
Sous le soleil à peine chaud,
Oublie tes maux...

Partage moi ton lyrisme,
Qui m'inspire,
Comme ta belle voix de lyre :
"Quel érotisme !"

Fermer ses yeux si fort,
Que je peux discerner des couleurs,
Des arabesques, des tâches, puis l'incolore.
Ce soir, ce mythe se fait peu prometteur...

Rouverts comme deux portes maudites,
Mes pupilles ne regardent que la lumière
De l'étoile levante et hypocrite:
"Ah ! Quel caractère !"

Pas un rêve ne m'a émancipé.
La lune n'est d'aucun réconfort,
Mais le soleil a bien plus de torts.

Nuls cauchemars
Ne réparent
Ma lucidité...

Bonjour Gray Man,
What is on the menu for breakfast today?
A black coffee and a plate of blueberry jam,
On plain white bread.
A blueberry, for the blue in you,
Coffee and bread, because you find it tasty.
Gray Man of Paris,
What's here that you fancy?
What led you to leave to shaded land,
Of pencil-paper men?
Was it a secret love of bright colors,
That you look so dreary against?
Well salut Gray Man,
Enjoy breakfast in the colored land.

Beneath the Eiffel's iron lace,
A tabby cat prowls with feline grace,
Past Arc de Triomphe, she sets her pace,
On moonlit nights down the Champs Élysées.

Prowling around cafés and bustling streets, She slips into wine-soaked conversations, Witnessing love's soft declarations,
While dodging bikes and hurried feet.

Her whiskers twitch at fresh baguettes,
As dawn breaks on the Seine's calm flow, Lounging, watching artists come and go,
From her sun-kissed, with a view parapet.

Notre Dame's gargoyles watch her pass,
Through shadows of restored spires,
In all its reverent wonder, to be admired
As pigeons scatter on morning mass.

Up to Montmartre's charm and winding ways,
She naps peacefully on warm window sills,
As church bells toll from sacred hills,
Lost in the wonders of her Parisian days.

©️Lizzie Bevis

There once was a fella from France
Who'd dance a libidinous dance:
     He'd focus the eyes
     Of the club on his thighs,
Then dance himself out of his pants.

instrumental
dreamer

time free
to sight see

wide
down
corybantic
oval
perimeter
shedding
tiers

in a garden
of angels
sprinkled
with pine cones
at the border of
void and Vaud

cantons
of meltwater cirque
les petites Fauconnières
the inner basin
of my outer reaches

I am
your
visitor
I am
your
audience

let's
stop
for snow
and polar cap
songs
where things
are still run by the natural elements
instrumental dreamer
not by algorithms
not by advancement

To wish for a wish,
To break bread with you.
Maybe one day I can be,
What flies in your dreams.
At night I think and wonder
Why can't I be. What I am.
I'm always down trodden.

You always know
Where you're going,
What you are doing,
why you are moving
Around like you do.

So hopeful, so bleak.
I hope there is space for me
In that confidence.
I pray for nothing,
Just...please.