Pity le pauvre Parisian

Sens d’humour excised at birth
but schooled in ridicule.
Langage distorting the mouth.
Monkeys with Mick Jagger lips
condemned to a permanent pout.
With their enunciated phrases from Molière,
their aristocratic scowls.
- Who d’you think you are, Johnny Halliday?

Consider the curse of le pauvre Parisian
Thinking themselves thinner at the café philo
or dodging dogshit in the place du Cliché.
Watch as they set their sharp shoulders
and walk directly into opponent pedestrians.
They disdain apologies as the mark of fools
- Ha! These collisions are not accidents!

Paris! A museum of steam-blasted ghosts.
Suspicious, defending their corners.
Pour le vrai Parisian every joke is mockery
and behind their code of kisses
they languish,
conjugated by their own contempt.
- Ah, tourist! Stranger! Peasant lost in the big city!
What if you should contract their disease?

by David Barnes

2 commentaires:

  1. Ce commentaire a été supprimé par l'auteur.

  2. Great that you posted it here, David. The first part stuck in my mind. It pinches as if a call to be on watch-out for sticky slime.
    The last line sobers up the spitball into a shiny bullet. I enjoy it, with an ache somewhere.


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