“ Adieu, dernier beaux jours”
"I've got a war in my mind"
Hundreds of blue and white balloons break loose from their awnings in a square near Monmatre. I'm sat on a plastic chair - a wooden horse stands on a wooden box. Blue and white children chase the blue and white balloons, each child rushing forward and reaching out for the wind.
Across the street a magician, an old man, is warming his hands over a green tank’s petrol flame, he wears battered Nike airs; his clothes are faded. The forest is not far away. I sense the kiss of winter on the winter trees' cold bark. The magicians face tells a story. His whispers a prayer to the sky above him, his words rise like the balloons.
“1: High wind and a smattering of rain; an impending sense of doom. The clouds are getting heavy”
Sunlight mixes with snow on the paving stones. The pavement looks horrible. I want to throw up; to to add to its horror. Cigarette stubs and lemon peel line the dirty black gutters. There is a café on corner, the door is open. The door has always been open. This is not just any café, I hope you'd have realised that by now.
I throw a coin into the old man’s cup. He looks up and glares into my eyes, his blues penetrate my soul. I feel he flicks over my deepest desires, as if they were centrefolds spreading out in a magazine. Without speaking, he understands, he casts a silent spell.
1939. Milan. 1942 Rome. 1945 Paris .
“ 2: The great evergreens are swaying. The wind whips up what’s left of the ochre leaves and tosses them around like confetti. The storm is getting stronger.”
The spirit of darkness shudders through the forest, the troops approach a fountain by the station. The blue and white balloons hover in mid air and begin to sink. Time drips backwards. My watch shatters. One of the children screams. Her hands fall off.
Approaching from the Southern hill a group of three girls march forward like warriors. I stay as still as the Sacre-Coeur. The youngest girl is holding a dead rat. I imagine it is her pet. She throws the rat to the sky and laughs, her laugh is like a hurricane tearing over an ocean. This is getting bleak. I’m nervous. I sit in my cage on a plastic chair, drinking a orangey-grey mixture that taste slightly of Octopus venom.
“ 3. The storm tears the roof off an old barn and rips through an orchard, in a few short blows the apples are lost and their bearers are uprooted. The decimation is brutal. Huddled in a shaking house - a family prays for the storm to end.”
“ Another coffee please ”
The second youngest of the three girl, Sky, strolls into the café, she puts her arms around my neck and drools words into my hair in a tangling Neapolitan accent:
'there have never been more rivers than seas'
'The city is as green as Eva's shoes.'
The oldest sister Summer, stands on my left. Summer’s smile is as peaceful as the sunset in the season she was named after. I stand up to offer her a chair. She sits next to me. I kiss her deeply on her full red lips.
'Actually, I still have Eva’s shoes in a tin box. Hold on'
I remove Eva’s shoes. For the second time.
The three sisters are silent. The wind blows over...
4: The weather clears. The wind dissipates. There is a great sense of calm. (the final note from my storm diary).
....a plastic chair. To the left, in the canal, the water is blown white by the ripple of the sun's white light. The magician across the way begins to hiss. 'Calamitous astrology'. A table collapses. In the milky way a star forms and disintegrates. I leave with the three girls. We are up to no good again, I rub my hands with glee.
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I've no new poetry to warn you about, dear reader, but I would like to draw your attention to the critical writing I've been doing for Stride and Neon. Take a peek!
