Mon · Plaisir

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Frère Jacques, frère Jacques...
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Transforming recognition of you
As a living construct of his smile,
A talisman, a needed lovingness,
Perhaps because you always climbed the bellrope of night,
Much as I heard the knell, as usual, only once.
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Byways of a mysterious forest
That could be home or could be anywhere,
When the keys and bolts and spells
Cannot grant the secrecy of peace.
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One needs to piss as much as one needs love,
And I am certain of God's betrayal,
No matter how ill theology might take it.
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Je n'ai jamais violé le rêve inassouvi.
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He was far from sober and asked me in a pretty Irish accent if the tube was near. I told him I would gladly take him wherever he needed to go.
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He was skinny and pink, with a big rump.  He lay on the bed meekly, with his famous arse in the air as if saying: there it is, have at it.
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Murrvelous, he said. Foock me again he said.
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Dream, while light sleeps.
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Whoever is forsaken and wishes, now and then, to hook up with someone, notwithstanding the changes that time, season, work, other circumstances impose; find an arm, any arm, to hold on to, will need a window looking out into the street.
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Even if he is at the point of no longer looking for anything, if he is just a dead-tired old man leaning on his window sill, running his gaze between the crowds and the clouds, his head hanging, unable to want anything; horses will carry him nevertheless in their  procession of carriages and noise,  plunging him yet again in the community of men...
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Her simple all-white dress gives a perfect report of her young body, slim, small round breasts, trim hips, pale neck. Her gentle rhythm knows nothing of her almond eyes, her deep red lips, her nose that wants to be long, but ends with a curtsey.
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She is the Smile of God,  ha-Tchiyuch shel-Elohim, the only possible holiday.
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