Parisians

Parisians Paris is often on my mind, she was a pianist in an unfashionable night-club had a smoky voice- at least 40 a day- she looked like a night without sex was a paltry end of her struggle to keep her skin, the glowing youth of remembrance. Our eye blinks collided trolldom? She was a hex and I was drawn to her charm. In the morning I heard her in the kitchen she was pouring a drink that if water is added looks like milk- She went into the loo and had a pee and I was quietly grateful it was not a dump. I drifted off to sleep and only woke up when she awoke me having made toast and coffee- She wanted me to stay, but I had a date at twelve reading English written poetry for a group of Parisians middle class twits, who would lamely applaud while thinking they could have done it better in their legionary accent they thought was an elevated a form of expression and we dumb people meekly have accepted as a truth, the accolade of refinement. My French, elderly seductress was from Morocco and her father had been an officer in the army who when he came to France was offered a job as a doorman, a job he refused he went home and shot himself. Yet I love the underbelly of Paris, it is where the poor and loses live and if one of the succeed Paris middle-class will claim them and say they were typical Parisians.