It’s easy to do sleaze.
But unendurable, like melancholy. On the shimmering canal
looking through glass. It was an insult if you ask me,
a commodified lease–hair’s only the bohemian
saving grace in the window of leash.
We shuffled along a block waiting for
an old man on his toilet break. He had a filial daughter
who was a doctor. We saw windmills, and cheese.
Large wooden clogs tease our hollow feet.
I was embarrassed, by something I forgot.
The sun’s benevolence dissolved it.
A barrage of joy and donning hotel slippers.
Later I was to be adorned by neat fins,
so I could wriggle, like a mermaid,
or a fish. It was later too,
that we met in the backroom of
a monastery. There I read you a poem.
We were finally alone and sinuous
and you kissed my cheek.
Prompt: Good morning folks! Or good evening more likely. I had a flashback to Amsterdam. So that’s how the poem started. But then I had to stage some kind of meltdown so I went for fiction. Language has fins. So that’s how you are to do it. Do some kind of travelogue. But fictionalise it. I think fiction’s more interesting. And somehow more real. How’s how a pro does it:
In Chartres from her entourage of flames Our Lady beamed at me
The blood of your Sacred Heart drenched me in Montmartre
I’m sick of hearing blissful promises
The love I feel is a venereal disease
And the image possessing you in your pain your insomnia
Vanishes and it is always near you
And now you are on the Riviera
Under lemon trees that never stop blooming
You are boating with friends
One is from Nice one is from Menton two from La Turbie
We are staring terrified at giant squid
At fish the symbols of Jesus swimming through seaweed
You are in the garden at an inn outside of Prague
You are completely happy a rose is on the table
And instead of getting on with your short-story
You watch the rosebug sleeping in the rose’s heart
from Guillaume Apollinaire’s poem “Zone”