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Paid one hundred francs
Sweet luscious, bargain kisses
Ill-gotten rapture.
Carl Halling Jul 2015
my paris begins with
those early days
as a conscious flaneur
i recall the couple
seated opposite me
on the metro
when i was still innocent
of its labyrinthine complexity
slim pretty white girl
clad head to toe in denim
smiling wistfully
while her muscular black beau
stared through me
with fathomless orbs
and one of them spoke
almost in a whisper
qu'est-ce-que t'en pense
and it dawned on me
yes the young parisienne
with the distant desirous eyes
was no less male than me

dismal movies
in the forum des halles
being screamed at in pigalle
and then howled at again
by some kind of madman
or vagrant who told me
to go to the bois de boulogne
to meet what he saw
as my destiny
menaced
by a sinister skinhead
for trying on tessa's
wide-brimmed hat
getting ****** in les halles
with sara
who'd just seen
dillon as rusty james
and was walking in a daze
sara again with jade
at the caveau
de la huchette jazz cellar

cash squandered
on a gold tootbrush
two tone shoes
from close by
to the place d'italie
portrait sketched
at the place du tertre
paperback books
by symbolist poets
but second hand volumes
by trakl and deleve
and a leather jacket
from the marche aux puces
porte de clignancourt
losing gary's address
scrawled on a page
of musset's confession
walking the length
and breadth of the rue st denis,
what an artist's paradise
(as juliette once wrote me).
Jonny Angel Jul 2014
I've seen devices
I never knew existed
& I wonder how those things work,
these things look like double headed chickens,
some are even long,
thick & bumpy,
a few solar-powered.
I think I'm going
to buy me a drum
& beat a fancy tune,
turn things up a notch,
work myself into a frenzy
perhaps visit a cabaret
& play a mime,
'cause I'm speechless.
Tim Knight Nov 2012
Let soles touch floors
on hills, in bars, between cafe terrace doors;
beside scarred walls that bleed paint
of the young, naive, those who cannot wait;
only to be scrubbed down by the thick bristled
brush of the Gendarme in white.

I’m 22 in the 18th,
with a one bed roomed house
high above the wake.
Next door is a wafer thin, paper thin,
not-that-thick-let’s-the-sound-in
wall; the portal through
to another war, of words exchanged
by a relationship estranged by
lies, cheats, drug filled leaps, missed-another-call
in Tuesday’s heat.

Here we take tea without milk,
waste time on the Pigalle, free of guilt.
We let warm metro, subway air
melt our faces,
as we stagger back a few several paces
not to be knocked down by taxis, brimmed with cases of
those visiting and leaving, staying around until the end of the races.

When will you calm down Paris?
When will your children lose their
keys to their cars and cannot drive
quite as far?
When will the tourists leave, so to uncover
the real autumn leafed workers, stretched
inside suits and dresses, only to be late
to that members meeting starting at 8?
Visit www.coffeeshoppoems.com for more poetry!
Carl Halling Jul 2015
Early days as a flaneur;
I recall the couple
On the Metro
When I was still innocent
Of its labyrinthine complexities;
Slim pretty white girl,
Clad head to toe
In new blue denim,
Wistfully smiling
While her muscular black beau
Stared straight through me
With fathomless, fulgorous orbs;
And one of them spoke
(Almost in a whisper):
"Qu'est-ce que t'en pense?"
Then it dawned on me...
The slender young Parisienne
With the distant desirous eyes
Was no less male than I.

Being screamed at in Pigalle,
And then howled at again
By some kind of wild-eyed
Drifter who told me to go
To the Bois de Boulogne to seek
What he clearly saw as my destiny;
Getting ****** in Les Halles
With Sara
Who'd just seen Dillon as
Rusty James,
And was walking around in a daze;
Sara again with Jade
At the Caveau de la Huchette.
                                                                    
Cash squandered
On a cheap gold-plated toothbrush,
Portrait sketched at the Place du Tertre,
Paperback books
By Symbolist poets,
Second hand volumes
By Trakl and Deleve,
And a leather jacket from
The flea market
At the Porte de Clignancourt.
                                                                    
Metro taken to Montparnasse,
Where I slowly sipped
A demi blonde
In one of those brasseries
(Perhaps)
Immortalised by Brassai;
Bewhiskered old man
In a naval officer's cap,
His table bestrewn
With empty wine bottles
And cigarette butts,
Repeatedly screeched the name
"Phillippe!" until a bartender
With patent leather hair,
Filled his wineglass to the brim,
With a mock-obsequious:
"Voila, mon Captaine!"
                                                                    
I cut into the Rue du Bac,
Traversed the Pont Royal,
Briefly beheld
Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois,
With its gothic tower,
Constructed only latterly,
In order that
The 6th Century church
Might complement
The style of the remainder
Of the 1er Arrondissement,
Before steering for the
Place du Chatelet,
And onwards...Les Halles!
"Tales of a Paris Flaneur" is a relatively new work in its present form, having been based partly on a story written in about 1987 (and subsequently destroyed), and partly on material written specifically for what became the autobiographical novel, "Rescue of a Rock and Roll Child".
There must be the difference
b/w imagining & seeing --
the things we...
feel & touch, by its all means.
Watching pretty young ladies,
but not so pearl kind of gurls,
Wearing blue jeans with holes in soft knees.
Without carin' of their age,
re-considering 'em 296-BABES of Boulevard Valenciennes.
Some standing by the pole...
Some walkin' down La Pigalle streets,
perhaps, there must be the difference
b/w reality & elm of dreams --
the things we feel & touch or kiss & love, in betweens.
sometimes i wonder if i’ll ever forget
you get off at rue de la pompe and me at la muette
something-something
beautiful soft lips
before glass breaks there are lightning-like rips

there was nothing for me to be angry at
colorful versace ad covering a church
no i wasn’t perched i was neatly sat
for the first time i'd believed that i'd done something good
i want to say a witty joke
but im afraid to be rude
militantly listening in our self-aware age

never wear a hat at center stage
something i’ve learned behind the scenes
watching people act figuring out what it means
i'm a raging feminist
nici de saint-phalle
from that trip i still have selfies
this one i took at pigalle
i show it to you and you smile in exchange
militantly listening in your self-aware age

i tell you all i’ve learned as if i’d known you’d come
you took out your curious and gave me some
no
you gave me one
another line from a pencil biter
a parliament blue and a little bic lighter
it falls through a canalization grill slit
i try to follow the ground sound to hear it hit
we have one lit one for a glowing exchange
militantly silent in my self-aware age
Johnny Noiπ Oct 2018
John was in memory of the One, Holy, Holy is the victory with a gypsy abstractly. Maecenas message call for the removal of 666 666 Hot Mozart's Italian Grand Guignol fingers uncontrollable motor which are much cheaper expressed as a movement. They have turned aside the hair of rags and with the smallest winds employees to their own with the Kiss of the snow owing to the thinness of their skinny skinny skin and a great and found it just as the Gauls in the opinion of showing him the signs he kisses him, having understood the vitamins of the deductible of the speech so inconsistent had attracted love to play the point to the cold to be expelled from the wings of love and in general to the contradictory things at the same time that they are true; Mark the end of the manners of that Jewish Maecenas call on all sides to take a white hot captive captivated by the muscles of the fingers, as was Mozart, the sixth Guignol lyrics are the greatest of Italy 1 close my eyes in this place, they are so moved; with vitamins and teens in the teaching of thrombosis before whom 1 stood and when he had seen the colors of India, who loves to have to play the point showing that she is not able to be there to say in the love of looking for driving and the cold or even in a general way, it is at the same time and that two contradictory's will be true; Corporate and bought again the only changes taking place at the time of the quotes that were not in the field of things which can not be sufficient to move the antiquity to the socks.In vain, in the light of the flames, he spoke of the mountains to the coast 1 sent the cops will stop when the first and breathed his last, a kind of and the dragon that is in the thing, which has its origin from the love for him with all your guned and blonde hair mom also a witch , as a gypsy at the St. John of the memory of the victory of the abstract; Maecenas calling lists hot departure instructions to meet Marcus Jewish character of Mozart in Italy Grand Guignol uncontrolled fingers are caught so that the muscles and sixth verses much more poorly knees movement; Stroke back hairy leaves, and the lowest wind light Us recognizing the voice of getting a kiss of snow Beneath the thin skin skinny, skinny she felt a huge found the rock, and the sight of colors showing kissing learning of vitamins and teens, is so inconsistent that he loves to play the point, cold love driving in general, and the wings of the two contradictory are true at the same time; some can move enough in the corporate areas where changes only take the country out of old socks. 1 was speaking to the early dawn, the shore in vain that the flames ascended the cop cops will stop at the ghost: a kind of a monster in reality, the origin of the whole mom also loved the gunned down blond witch, a gypsy victory in the memory of John the abstract; The call of the books and the jack of the hot Jewish Church, in turning away commands to meet Laura in Italy, the genius of Le Mozart's Grand Guignol madness predating by 100 years Le Théâtre du Grand-Guignol [– popularly known as the Grand Guignol –] a theatre in the Pigalle area of Paris that from its opening in 1897 until its closing in 1962 specialized in naturalistic horror shows; that he was so caught up as to the toes of one who tears it, too, of the muscles, the knee length of a song of six females in the motion of the knees; Soccer knows the bottom light winds hinting the return of hairy leaves to the sound of snow getting hold of her kisses to the thinness of the skin; skinny, skinny she found she felt a huge rock, its colors osculating showing signs and sights of foreign vitamins and teens so he loves to play the point, Cold Love Walking In general in the opposite direction of his true wings; and there is some way to move quite embodied in the places where the only changes take place in the country of his old socks.||

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