FLOOZIES & INTOXICATED SUMMER NIGHTS

paris 1

 

The epoch of Molotov cocktails, workers revolutions and common ownership
long since holding sway in the heart of Mother Russia had put unvarnished truth on ice for
both the refugee dreamers and the wide-eyed sleepers now nesting in The City of Love
little to amuse other than conceive modern art, huddle as one collective and to beseech the
shortest, poorest allegory of all, “Outside of the cave is merely outside of the cave”

 

Floozies and intoxicated summer nights distract, even belittle the new-fangled totalitarians
brazenly peeking over the brink of the Maginot Line planning this and that for another day
yet as of now wrist tattooing and counting golden fillings, logging the places the fiddler still plays
while spawning ever more flawless blond, blue eyed specimens for tomorrow’s humankind

 

The restless young dog day neo-impressionist behind the game his peers play listens intently
to news from Moscow told askew, as the jagged Soviet stood upon the rickety table broadcasts
to the left bank café crew the lie that all is well in Utopia still, yet turning a blind eye to the
greed and, or ambition of comrades to the fault line within the philosophy of Mordechai’s son
Those with willing ears they listen, they absorb, they believe his intrigue even as innocent thinkers
‘settle in’ in Gulag’s east of nowhere, the progressive Hexagon socialists get the news they want

 

Up high in the 18th arrondissement at least that budding blinkered artist had his seasoned lover
and all too willing muse in these days of political polar opposites ever at each other’s throats

 

“I’m bored, perhaps I should paint you outdoors for once…banks of The Seine maybe…you can keep your clothes on this time”

 

“I should hope so too”

 

“Never marked you down as modest! Besides there’s barely a living soul left…it’s August and those that can have migrated south. The city is deathly empty”

 

“Yes though there are plenty enough American writers and film-makers throwing dollars hither and thither”

 

“When have a few gawping Yanks ever bothered you? Imagine out on the Île Saint-Louis I’ll wager the sight of you au naturel would top up our dwindling coffers…maybe you should?”

 

“True…yet the gendarmerie would lock us both away”  

 

“By the way I might head off to Spain…join one of the International Brigades and help the fight against Franco and his scum”

 

“The ‘Rather Hitler than Blum’ brigade fascists will have your guts for garters you know”

 
Come winter in a ramshackle barn south of the Pyrenees’ blood red
upon a blood red mattress scattered thoughts and memories
three kisses of a cut throat daily no more, idealism crushed
the artisan who flirted with leftist polity became carrion
 

She, his erstwhile fascination, the one who had been around the block a few times
on a whim of necessity remarried her gentle gentleman from days of yore
forevermore regretting that she had let the boy leave Paris

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21 thoughts on “FLOOZIES & INTOXICATED SUMMER NIGHTS

  1. Wow Mike, I was gonna say sometheeng about Svetlana and was these reason fro your fal the other night. Then you heet me with last bit. Tour de force my friend. Tour de force x

  2. Sorry to read about the fall, and hope no pain is involved. The period between the two world wars has always deeply interested so I loved this piece. Eerily, I see patterns of similarity between the world of that day and our current circumstances, but am hoping I am wrong

    • I reckon you are correct. It may not be the communist v fascist these days yet polar opposites in religion are achieving the self same thing…as to my tumble I have been trying to post a ‘silly verse’ about it on WP thus far without success. It says it’s posted yet it isn’t – the only time I can get anything to post on WP is when the message comes up ‘scheduled to post’!

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