temper temper
i am the
ugly american
having a temper tantrum
on boulevard saint-michel
and i don’t care
we been at it for hours
trying to find the homes
of dead writers and artists
we’ve been locked inside gates
we’ve stopped off
for too many drinks
we’re fighting jet lag
i’m hungry
but i can’t order anything
no one understands me
in the latin quarter
paris is suddenly crowded
with assholes
wearing ascots and tight pants
the women here
are either models or whores
i can’t tell the difference
america is everywhere
it is on billboards and posters
this sickens me
because you can never really
get away
my wife is crying
it’s my fault
i left her sobbing in front of a cafe
i’ve taken the tour guide and the map
i’m on the
boulevard saint-germain
for the tenth time today
henry miller drank around here
so did sartre and bouvier
it feels like the whole world
drank here except for me
but i’m not finished yet
i’m going to keep on moving
until i calm down
until i find something nice to see
then i’ll find my wife
and show her
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4 comments:
that's beautiful-the sustained mood
I love your 'Paris Chronicles' ... Did you write them all there? Did you also happen to see Morrison's grave?
bandit...thank you
anthony...i wrote notes for most and some of the lines there. the only one i wrote there completely was the one i wrote about it being the last day of my 35th year.
saw Morrison's grave. actually found the apartment where he died as well.
i love your poem mate, cheer. keep it up..
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