March 21, 2011

Me and the German in Paris, France (by Alex Gallo-Brown)

Paris I can hardly imagine
apart from books and films—
Bertolucci’s The Dreamers is especially vivid:
American innocence exchange-studented
for multi-lingual orgies, the cusp of incest,
tossed empties of not cheap red wine,
that startling pubic hair,
cobblestones aflame.
Or Henry Miller swapping stories for dinners,
cunting this and cunting that,
a non-stop drinkfest.

Why would you be here, Mr. Schmitz?

Assigner of essays, German sadist,
lecher of 13-year olds, amateur historian
and professional peacock.
What do you have to do with
art-house films or crepes,
masturbation or saliva,
scratched letters to parents…

and yet you are here
tripping over cobblestones,
plodding from one open-air café to the next,
alternating thick whiskey with thick coffee.
Suddenly we are very drunk
and your stories of stuffing
Republican ballot boxes in Florida
break me up with laughter—haha
those stupid liberals will never figure it out—
you are a German Jerry Lewis
and I am snorting…

We chew steak Tartuffe,
bubbles of red juice
popping at the seams
of our mouths…


Ras. said...

this shouldn't remind me of that poem called a supermarket in california but it does. maybe cadence and gerunds? i like.

Jess said...

Oooof I love this...

shaun said...

i really like this and i also like the font

what is that

Poem Box said...

Thanks, folks. Font is Book Antiqua.