So sour, yet delicious.
Your lips pucker, your eyes squint.
The tangy juices drip from your mouth.
Citrus smells arose.
Lemons are sweet, their winched.
So sour, yet delicious.

Séraphine, Vignette nº 7, Le Cercueil

I was on the phone talking to the museum. Ground-penetrating radar had found what looked like a coffin at the Lutetian layer, and they were in the process of digging down to it. I was telling Sylvain to use the new 4K video cameras to record every detail when the doorbell rang. I’d left the door ajar, knowing Madame Pinard, the concierge was bringing by an adjuster to inspect and cut a check for the repair of the leak in the ceiling that had washed away chunks of plaster, now laying on the hardwood floor in the bedroom, exposing the wooden rafters of the attic.

“May we come in Monsieur,” she shouted from down the hall in the foyer. “Yes, Madame, please come in,” I shouted back, with more exasperation in my voice than I wanted to express. “I am on the phone with the musee Madame, please show him to the bedroom.”

I saw Madame and the adjuster come in out of the corner of my eye and turned my head to see them as they walked the stairs to the bedrooms. The adjuster was not a man, but a woman, which was surprising in France. The first thing I noticed about her, was her wide round birthing hips, what the kids, called thick. She wore a long-sleeve white silk blouse, black pencil skirt, and the traditional, obligatory Parisian back seamed stockings. I didn’t make out her face but caught sight of her red hair tied in a tight bun on the back of her head, and the milky white skin of her neck.

“Damien, are you listening,” said Sylvain, the dig manager on the other end of the line. “Yes, I replied, “l was distracted by my landlady bringing an adjuster into the apartment. Yes, I’ll come down as soon as they leave.”

After a few minutes, Madame and the adjuster came back down. The adjuster walked into the foyer to wait. Madame came into the living room and said she’d have a crew out tomorrow to start repairs. As madame turned and walked down the hall, I got a better look at the adjuster. She was pure Celt, with red hair, white skin, dark brown doe eyes that looked black, high cheekbones, and the sharp straight nose of a Greek statute.

Besides her stunning beauty, I noticed her necklace, a traditional golden Celtic torc, which signified the wearer as a person of high rank. I’d never seen a person wearing one. I’d only seen one on a statue, The Dying Gaul in Le Louvres. How so very interesting I thought to myself.  

As she was talking to Madame and turning to leave, she made eye contact. She tilted in acknowledgment and goodbye. I nodded back and she was gone. I wished I could have gotten a chance to talk to her, maybe even ask her for an aperitif at the corner bistro. Oh well, c’est la vie.

-------

I went to the dig at the La Crypt at 12:30-ish talked to Sylvain for a bit and went down to the lower levels to see it for myself. The area was gridded out and several cameras on tripods were recording. The team was within centimeters front the top, and so put down their trowels and used a high-pressure water and suction hoses to remove the rest of the topsoil. The top came into view, the excess water was ****** away. Sponges were used to clear and clean away the mud.

The stone was obviously Lutetian limestone, finely sanded and polished. The lid was craved, which first glance, looked like Norse runes and one Celtic knot. “Take pics and send them to religious studies,” I said half to myself, half to Sylvain. How strange to have Norse and Celt iconography together I thought to myself.

It was late when I exited the metro station. The air was bitterly cold, my breath appearing and disappearing around me like a mystic cloud.

I was tired, exhausted from digging, and was seeing things in the corner of my eye that I chalked up to aberrations of a fatigued mind. That is until I walked past the Boise de Boulogne. In a dark recess, along the tree line, I saw what looked like a faintly glowing woman in a white dress. My first reaction was horror, remembering all the monster movies I’d seen as a child. Then quickly, my adult mind kicked in and rationalized it away as an artsy late night photography session, which is common around Paris. The sting of the cold refocused my attention and I hurriedly resumed my walk home.

I was tired, muddy, and had to take a shower before throwing myself into bed. I showered, dried off, and pulled back the new, thick duvet I’d bought for winter. The moon was full, beaming softly, barely illuminating the dark bedroom, as I cracked opened a window to let a small amount of fresh cold air into the humid stale room.

I slid under the duvet. I liked the cold, it reminded me of camping in the mountains with my old man and being snug in our down sleeping bags as we talked half the night away. I quickly fell asleep.

I half awoke, sensing a presence. I opened my eyes and saw a woman, ****, standing at the end of my bed, enveloped in a faint blue luminescence. She looked at me with big doe eyes. I watched her watching me, trying to figure out if I was dreaming or not.

She crawled on to the bed. I couldn’t feel her as she made her up the bed. She straddled me. I saw glint around her neck and saw she was wearing a torc, and realized who she was.

Her face was centimeters from mine. Her eyes burned with ferocity, intensity, and anger. I looked back up at her, fear welling up inside of me. She looked down at me. Her penetrating eyes, looking into my soul. I could feel her in my head, my mind.

She felt my fear, and without a word, just the look in her eyes, reassured me, calmed me, and my body and mind relaxed as if a nurse had given me a shot of morphine.

She touched her lips to mine, and felt the heat of her beath, smelled her dewy scent. I didn’t move. I knew I was prey. I knew what she wanted, and let her take it.

She slid her tongue into my mouth, and I gently ****** on it. She ****** up my lower lip, biting it playfully. She tasted sweet, fresh, like spring water. I couldn’t get enough of her. I wanted more. I kissed her harder, deeper, and felt myself slide to the edge of sleep, no longer sure what was a dream, or what was real.

She pulled back the duvet, grabbed my ****, and stroked it till it was painfully hard. She kissed it, put it in her mouth, and ****** it. Her head bobbing up and down. She’d stop, bite the head, and use her teeth to scrape up and down the shaft till I winched and yelled out in pain.

I started to moan, my body tightening, and arched, thrusting deeper into her mouth, coming as she raked her nails hard down the side of my chest. To my surprise, she didn’t spit out but swallowed my ***, licking excess from around her lips.

--------

I opened my eyes and was blinded by sunlight streaming in through the open windows and curtains. What the ****, I thought to myself, I never sleep this late. It was always dark when I wake. And the birds, chirping in the trees outside my window, were loud, and grating on my nerves.  

I slowly got out of bed. My body ached, my lower lip hurt, and my **** was sore. I grabbed my **** and immediately released it in pain. It was raw as if I’d had ***. I was definitely confused. My eyes darted from side to side as I tried to make sense and remember last night. I left the dig, came home, showered, and went to bed.

I trudged to the kitchen and made coffee, all the while, racking my brain for some clue as to why I felt like ****. I poured a cup, leaned back on the counter, and sip the coffee. I shook my head, placing my hand on my hip, and felt a sharp burning. I looked down and saw blood on my hand and side. I went to the bathroom mirror and saw fingernail marks down both sides of my chest. I just stared.

I had no idea, no clues as to how these happened. I jumped into the shower and washed off, bandaged up the bleeding scratches with paper towels and tape, dressed, and went to the cafe at the corner.

Despite the cold, I sat on the terrace, ordered coffee, bread, butter, and jam. I looked at my phone. It was 8:08. I looked at my text messages and emails for some clue as to what happened last night.

Breakfast came, and I sipped the coffee, staring out into the street. The waiter walked past me. “Oui madame, what would you like this morning,” he said. “Cafe et croissant,” she said. The waiter turned and walked back inside. I turned my head to the side for a quick look and blinked twice. It was the redheaded adjuster from yesterday.

“Bonjour M. Delacroix,” she said. “Bonjour Madame,” I instinctively replied. There was an awkward pause.  “I am Brigitte, Brigitte Dieudonné,” she said softly.

We small talked over breakfast and when I tab came, paid, and said, “I headed to the office.” “It is the weekend monsieur. “Yes,” I replied, “I work at an archeological dig on Ile de la Cite. The crypte.” “I am headed that way myself, do you mind if I walk with you,” she asked.

We walked to the metro station, down the stairs, through the turnstile, and onto the quay. The train came, the doors hissed open, and we strode in. The train was full of Chinese tourists and it was standing room only. I grab a pole and Brigitte did the same as she squeezed up beside me.

The train jolted forward and Brigitte bumped into me. As the train smoothed out, she kept leaning into me. Her derriere in my crouch. I could feel her body through her coat. I was getting turned on. As the trained curved around a curve, it rocked back and forth. Her *** bumping and grinding against my now hard ****. Could she feel my hard-on through the coats? She half-turned her head a gave me a coquettish smile. She knew I thought to myself.

We exited La Cité metro station, on to Place Louis Lépine. Before I could say anything, she said she’d like to see the dig. “Sure,” I said, and we walked to the La Crypt. We walked down the stairs to glass doors and pass the touristy exhibits and displays, to the back, behind the green painted plywood wall. Sylvain and several grad students were standing over and around the coffin. Two of them were in the pit setting up a portable x-ray machine, one with a still camera, another with a video camcorder, and the rest looking down at their tablets.

Brigitte and I walked to the edge. The coffin’s lid had been clean. The runes and Celtic knot were clearly visible. “Danger, death, mother,” Brigitte said. Sylvain turned his head, and said, “she is right, danger, death, mother according to the religious studies guys.” “How do you know that,” I asked. “It’s in all the teenage vampire movies,” she replied grinning.

“The top one is an inverse Thurisaz, which is means danger. The second one is an inverse Algiz, which means death. The knot is Celtic for mother, and the dot in the heart means she had one daughter,” Brigitte said trailing off.

“It looks you’ve got it under control Sylvain. I have an appointment. Brigitte can I walk you back to la place,” I said.

We walked to la place and stopped at the metro entrance. “Can I have your number,” I asked? “Yes, you may, if you promise to call monsieur Delacroix,” she said smiling girlishly. She took my phone from my hand and typed in her number and dialed. Her phone rang. “I have your monsieur, Delacroix. A bientot,” she said. We did la bise and she was off.

Our trajectory is unknowable, you tell me: the planet
corkscrews around the Sun, sure,

but the Sun corkscrews around a black hole at
the heart of the Milky Way,

and our whole galaxy travels on some mysterious,
incalculable vector. But sister, I saw a photograph

in which two whale sharks were brought to
heel by men in simple reed boats just

off the coast of the Philippines. All that they had
to do was often feed

the sharks many gallons of grocery-store frozen
shrimp, poured from plastic garbage bags into

their yawning six-foot maws to portside.
Gargantuan, sure, but still

as obedient and eager for food as backyard
squirrels. I remembered a grainy

internet video—I saw it probably seven or
eight years back—in which

a captured whale shark was winched
ashore in Madagascar, or

maybe it was the Philippines again—no matter—
the thing still had life left

in it and struggled to breathe while a crowd of
people gathered around—there were

women carrying babies, girls holding baskets atop
their heads—and then the

men came with a long slender blade and sliced clean
through the whale’s spine, vivisected it

right there on the dock, and the onlookers stood there quite
unfazed—I remember

being shocked at the effortlessness of the cut,
the pinkness of the whale’s blood,

and the boredom in the onlookers’ eyes. Our father
took us down to San Antonio

on one of his business trips there when we were five
or six—I think

you were probably too young to
remember it—

it was when you and I saw the ocean for the first
time. We drove down to the Gulf

of Mexico, and we saw waves breaking
out near the horizon in pale

sunlight. I kept scanning for a dorsal
fin off beyond

the breakers, thinking that I might spot one—
sandy brown, mottled with

cream spots and glistening—so that I might be able to
say to you, pointing, “look,

sister, there is a whale shark!” Years
later we would learn

that he traveled down to San Antonio so
frequently because he was a philanderer. As

a child I believed that whale sharks
crisscrossed the ocean following

paths that we couldn’t fathom, that
their concerns were somehow

beyond our comprehension, but then
Keppler pinned down

the shape of the Earth’s orbit over four
hundred years ago,

and the lives of ancient sea
titans are sundered

effortlessly
by men with indifferent faces.

It's hard to see the point in it!
(Perhaps it's me)

A dismal afternoon of rain,
A flask of tea.

Beside this murky river now
They sit and wait,

So statuesque and silent
Clutching tins of bait.

All week in offices they sweat
With just one wish -

For Saturday come along
So they can fish.

And now beneath the willows' fringe
They bait their hooks,

Comparing rods and reels and lines
With envious looks.

The lines that fly from whizzing reels
Fall with a plip

And drift upon the surface
Where they bob and dip.

Till, with a ****, a wriggling jewel
Is winched ashore

To have its ****** brains bashed out
Upon the floor.

Whole hours slipped away. and later those days
when time became nothing but the tide
rising and falling like a clarinet echoing a concerto.
Night after night, I listened for silver keys clapping  
its melody sewing a soft shroud around my ears.
Its sound bellowed into the twilight with
stars stinging my neck with their glare.
My very existence hurled into a dark shipping lane
with ferries and barges scaring my view, but
sometimes the ladder from the moon’ reflection
beckoned me climb to that astral galaxy.   For there
I was blinking, weeping tears, I was alive                                     .
Then in a moment, my legs would groan.
Suddenly, as splintered arrows they splashed
into the angry waves and then sank into a scrim of water
steering me into a safe harbor, where anchoring
I could bob with the tide and then one day
I winched in my billowed sail
drying my eyes from a night of loneliness
dawn flickered light on my lashes! wind
laughing like a beacon! On the rim of the horizon.

I reach out . . . sadlessly
I preach out . . . incessantly

when time comes asking who ? . . .
what are you ?
it will catch you grasping

I took the answer book
Maybe eleven years of age
Put it in my desk
Forgot it in all it's page

Then the squirrel I shot
with my B-B gun through it's ears
It fell dead and in my regret
flooded into a sea of tears

Life and death swirls around me
My eyes leaving me with no surprise
Tomorrow is heaped upon me
All yesterdays materialized

The answer book was found
I pleaded guilty without a sound
Tried , convicted , sentenced
To no crime was I winched

I buried the squirrel
Said a prayer asking forgiveness
For all my wicked sins

That life is so sacred
That without some kind of repentance
I would never be allowed to win .

Jesus came to me saying , " It's all right , I forgive you of your sins."

Even under forgiveness
I felt little of a relief

God said to me ," My son has spoken , it is
one of belief ."

I see the squirrel
Sitting in that tree
One moment alive , breathing , free

My choice to make
My grace to be
I pulled the trigger forever changing me

I reach out . . . endlessly
I preach out . . . repentively

When time comes asking who ?
Then I know what I am

She said to me I tasted like a overripe cherry,
I told her she tasted like dust.
I told her she tasted like a storm, an electrical one,
I told her it wasn't good weather for setting off,
But she still smiled and unfurled a sail.
She told me I didn't listen and I sounded like the ocean,
I told her, her words were like a black hole
And I didn't have an airlock,
I told her she was the tears after a hurricane,
And her words were like dead leaves on the ground,
But still she talked like she was the universe.
She told me I loved like i like always letting go,
I told her I'm not a lifeboat,
I told her I'm an anchor that hasn't be winched up,
And I dragged along the murky bottom of her love,
And I was too strong to keep going,
And still she said she loved me when I'm weak.
She said I ****** like it was going out of style,
I told her that this wasn't the trend,
That I was old-fashioned and sonnets cried in bed,
Are worthless as the air they're written on,
I told her that ******* wasn't the problem,
And still she laid there bare and pen in mouth.
I said I am not a conditional type of person,
And she said I'm not a red pen waiting to mark your wrongs,
She said I wasn't good enough to waste the time on,
Trying to put together in her mind,
Because love should be easy.
So I said no, but it shouldn't be this hard.

Afore colliery doth the world be so suggestive of sublimity,
Upon me lay no residence that I may well take leave,
Barring, encompassed beneath the celestial witching hour,
Amassed unruffled, myself and thee.

A moment at time doth chattels be made the scene unmarred,
And thy look as if existed hence silver-tongued,
A haste of blustery weather hail from over me,
As I winched up from my pier and meandered absent.

Unknown to me could some unique facet be more veracious,
Nowhere be present at hand, a berth I be further elicit to,
O' be at disposal with me that we may saunter self-possessed, my unrivaled ecstasy,
Amassed unruffled, myself and thee.

During my childhood I was badly abused
and as I grew older, I became the accused.

The beating I took came straight from dad,
who used every obstacle to beat me so bad.

That tears that I've shed were because of fear,
that kick that I took it deafened my ear.

Doing hard labor at the age of nine
keeping the torment in the back of my mind.

Eventually I became this child of steel
hard as a rock, with no tender feel.

I became immune to the blows to my head
of  the tips of my welts that slightly bled.

The pain, it faded and my mind grew weak,
but as my body grew stronger, I became this freak.

He said he'll teach me from wrong to right,
but my rage grew stronger, so I stood to  fight.

He kicked down my door, I stood to my feet
he sensed the difference as our eyes finally meet.

I held no fear by the stare of my eyes
I was no longer afraid, but wanted him to die.

Speechless we stood as my fist starts to flinch
while he drew closer, I never winched,

His first blow landed forcefully on my eye
I shook it off and said, "It's your turn to cry".

We fought like caged animals, He fell ******* the floor
I spat in his face and said, "NO MORE!".

After that night no two words were said,
walking to the beach with conflicting thoughts in my head.

Like: What did I do?, but yet felt at ease
I was happy to see him begging me please.
Was it the right thing for me to attack?
For the beatings to stop so he won't hit me back?
It must be the way for him to leave me alone.
I saw the fear in his eyes that had once been my own.

As I grew older it lingered in my mind
the memories I harbored never stayed behind.

I figured, "I'll be respected if I fight my way through, because I've powered over my dad and I can power over you".

I never started trouble, but if it came my way
I'd fight to destroy with nothing to say.

The littlest thing you do can get me mad
who knows what will happen as you fade into dad.

My past still haunts me after all these years
it brings me power and hides my fears.

When I get into rage I can no longer see,
but I know you're my dad who stands in front of me.

I'll give all I've got till the damage is done
once again my past has won.

I've abused so many loved ones or not,
but I never cared and I never stopped.

It took that one night when he yelled it at me,
"The Devils in your eyes, Oh GOD please help me!".

The fear that I saw, it made my heart burn
I wanted to run, but no where to turn.

I looked deep in her eyes and I saw myself there
she was badly bruised, just shaking with fear.

Now I'm in prison and paying my dues
for the damages I've caused with scared black & blues.

The memories continue to haunt me today
I want it to stop, please GOD take it away

You know when you see someone you miss
someone lovely there is no hope with
Some heart with strings and such
that always keeps you held tight
winched with what not and such
maybe id be happier with
Some lovely hand scrounging her way
betwixt my cotton strung nethers
Never mind an old spot in realistic fiction
I remember the cigarette smoke.
And i was happy to oblige
with the repentance
a hand and a sentence
******* read with a mouth to trace
while your own words form
like honey from your lips.

If life is like a grand piano,
Make me up a melody
With keys both white and black;
Strike notes that play on heart strings,
With joyful rifts that send me souring,
And broken chords that pull me back.

And if life is like a grand piano,
I'll stand below and watch it sway;
Winched out a tenth story window;
The wire begins to thin and fray.

I want that grand piano of life
To answer gravity's beckoning call,
In all it's cartoon-dramatics;
Let it tip, then let it fall.

I want every high and every low;
I want moonlit passions
And morning coffees;
I want screaming matches
And baby scans;
I want passport stamps
And phone calls home;
I want celebrations
And hospital visits.
I want blood;
I want cuddles in the kitchen;
I want sweat;
I want kisses in the rain;
I want tears;
I want lighting strikes and sunrises;
I want scars, stories and tax returns;
I want lies, love and mortgages;
I want to be scared.
I want broken promises met with ''I'm sorry''s;
I want drunken phone-call serenades at 3am,
And slurred ''I love you''s I only half believe;
I want forehead kisses before driving to work;
I want heartbreak.
I want to say ''I love you'' and mean it.
I want to say ''I hate you'' and mean it.
I want to speak at my bestfriend's wedding and ***** it up;
I want to hold my sister's hand when she gives birth;
I want to watch my brother strum guitar on stage;
And then file for a messy divorce as my children finish school.
I want to grow old and wrinkle in whichever way this path has planned.

When I'm ready for it all,
I want life to be boringly brilliant,
And beautifully broken,
And painfully unplanned.
I want to live this life until I'm full and my bones crack.

So when that straining wire does snap -
Just let that grand piano fall;
I'll stand below and won't move a step,
Because in this life I want it all.

...


                     Yourn purty flirt
           enveloped mine cerebral's
                            chapter
              your­n expose instigated
                          mine weak
                         mine dither
                   affecting this spew

     From your bottom limb's attach
       unto your haunch's camber's
                             entice
        mine eyne found entertain as
      morning's Spring wind winched
                              thine
              glabrous humid tumid's
                             raiment

                              Ahhhh
                    ­    vernal ardor

Incoming ocean
Tides.  The marshlands enjoyed a swim -
Roads winched with flooding.

SUCH A SUNNY DAY

the objects
in his pocket

have lost
their identity

their significance
to anyone but him

a hairy comb
photo of an unknown

woman
who can she be

a torn-in-two
train ticket

chewing gum
much masticated

yet put back
in his blazer's breast pocket

small change
a penny and a sixpence and

a button
from the cuff

no clue as to who
he had been

before the water claimed him
as its own

the disgust and fascination
of those

passersby who continue
to pass by

it such
a sunny day

for death to
intrude this way

the miscellany of objects
ownerless now

the waters of the Liffey
calm and unmoved

*

I was just coming up to O'Connell Bridge and the bus got snarled in traffic. It was a beautiful beautiful sunny day and as I gazed idly out of the window a body, sodden and shapeless but still all too human was being winched out of the river. So we were forced to witness this before the bus finally made it to the bridge. It was startling and cut like an emotional knife through the fabric of the perfect day.

My girlfriend at the time told of a friend of hers who had sometime last year thrown herself into the Liffey so that added an extra dimension to the horror. Everyone who had met her on that last day said she seemed so happy and were amazed that she had done so because "...it was such a sunny day." She only had a comb and a button and small change in her pocket...all she owned. A human life shrunk to so little.