Focused but with ease I sit
in a spring-cushioned
armchair coated in
soft leather, dyed
a rich bordeaux.
Cigarette in one hand,
Negroni in the other,
Joint prêt sur la table.

The Ouroboros woman lay
across from me on the
méridienne.
Our eyes not breaking sight,
we're opposite anchors.

Pegs pulling
piano wire.

As the smooth tapestry
of her milky skin is caressed
by one wondrous instrument affixed
upon her slender forearm,
with extensions most
sensual, the other
one implores
herself in
glorious
fervour.

Joie de vivre,
as close as you
can get, at least.

A tenebrous passion.
As thunderous as brief.
Adieux mon cœur,
ma jolie,
Élise.

One day I went to France on a day trip
I returned later
It was OK

I heard crickets today
I heard them every night and day.
I heard lazy conversations in French
To the sound of reggae and a glass of rosé.

I smelt the freshness of Mont-Saint-Victoire
And dryness of the ground beneath my feet.
Smelt the distinct odour of oil paint in the distance,
Creating a new 'œuvre d'art’.

I touched a rough stone wall, covered with dust and dead leaves
It seemed sharp against my fingers but I only smiled.
I felt the soft fur of a stray cat
It hissed at me but didn't move a limb.

My tongue tingled from the bitter sweet bubbles of apple cyder,
Tingling my throat and warming my chest.
I took another sip and it ran through my body,
Relaxing every muscle.

My eyes were half closed yet still focused.
I saw children running around,
I saw old houses leaning one side
I saw Vauvenargues.

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.