But Paris

turned out to be

a brutal night—

the stuff poets

are made of.


I walked about Paris

wandering aimlessly

w/ Henry Miller in my thoughts

& my eyes filled

w/ beautiful Parisian women.


My thoughts turned


girls in stockings & skirts

even in late November.


I keep turning my head

& looking

& seeing all these

gorgeous women

& then I go back

to my hotel room alone.


I lay in the bed

unable to sleep

tho my eyes are heavy

with fatigue

but mind and body

refusing to shut off.

Paper thin walls—

I hear all the sounds

coming from

the rooms next to me.


It sounds like—

no it couldn’t be—

talk about

a slap in the face:


The couple 

in the room next door

are doing it

& thru paper thin walls

I get to hear 

Everything and 

I do mean everything.


“Ahhhhhh, ah, oooohhhhh!”


After not

getting laid

not getting lucky

I am treated to 

the orgasm 

of another person.


“Ahh, oui, ah oui!”

the bed is squeaking.


Suffice to say

I woke up

in a really hurry

to get back to Amsterdam.


I caught the first train

& went straight to Amsterdam

without stopping in Brussels

to collect 200 Belgian francs.


It was a long,

long train ride

but not nearly 

as long as that night

I hope I never repeat.


Author's Notes/Comments: 

11-28-95, written at 30,000 feet.

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   Third attempt to write about it

And all I ever get too is the unzip part!

Trap of the honey sucker,

His bed made of semen petals!


I don’t look or care for excuses,

Yes I was young, so what !

Should I have known better?

When his fingers stroked my skin?

And his words twisted it my mind?


Hidden face of innocence can be so ugly!

I almost forget him, forgive? Who…

Before he did the deed it left on me!

one has to be violated it, my best tattoo.


It seems like the wind was slapping my ass,

When his fifthly hands caressed it my hair.

His sickly voice trying to hypnotised my drunken soul,

And felt my clothles being removed away!


What was the big deal? those crimes happen every days,

I was seventeen, I was no kid,

Oh sure, It took long before I took the knive

And kill my ego used and abused!


Paris, city of the lovers,

Not so sure by the hot poker,

I scream enough for him to give me back my serenity,

By then it was too late!


The man, used a soap to seat on his new trophy,

And if I felt hate, my manhood was hard,

And let him steals my innocence,

Today, I feel nothing, no an inches of hate!


They say rape is a taboo subject,

I say, taboo is the silence that followed it!

I have no more time for secrets,

We all, know secret kills!


It could have been someone else,

Today, I barely remember his face,

More the details of his room,

The pimp of the voice whispering me,


How beautiful, I was,

The lies and the burning soap,

Burning my inside while he took his pleasure,

And felt to sleep like a child.


As I was told youth is wasted on the youngsters!

Woke up naked my mind still fills with blurry flashbacks,

Of what he had done to me,

looking at him sleeping peacefully.


The kid turned to a man,

And shook him, realising his clothes had vanished!

He could barely spoke and order me to go back to bed,

The front door was locked or was it my sanity?


I was a naked trap animal,

There was only one last exit,

I open the window,

And stood on the balcony.


I scream for my life,

He watched me like some frantic creature,

But he knew the look in my eyes,

Was ready to do the jump!


He crawled of the bed of his sin,

And took a key of his pocket,

Through my attire at me

And I run half naked in the streets of romantic Paris.


There is neither moral or regrets,

I find my way to the train station,

And once more time as I had did thousand of time the night before,

I check my pocket, where I had not find any money or my return ticket.


As my hand plunge one more time in my jacket pocket,

I felt something I had look all night,

My hands retrieved the train ticket,

Was I a joke of the devil?


And all I could sense was the remains,

The burning sensation inside me,

Soap are made to wash hands,

Train ticket to leave, Strangers to avoid

As meaningless to day the word rape has become.


Sweet seventy, face of an angel

Easy prey, half sober,

Wondering the streets of Paris,

Funny, I still always check my pockets to these days!




Author's Notes/Comments: 
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              Shall we reassure them straight away…we would not had it any others ways!

The ultimate price we had to pay to feel so alive was the pain of loosing each other’s.

If we did not too, we would have drift ourselves into the same absurdity of everyone else’s, I shall thank you for it, and I shall, always love you even more for it?


since the day, you choose to leave this masquerade, you came forever in our garden, sleeping with our dying flowers, speaking to the fading moon.

While, I am trap into the neglect down below.

How many words could speak about you with justice?

How many pictures could portray the complexity of a human being?

I do not think if I could write these words with my own blood, which I am sure would feel so painless, I could ever give justice to the memories…


A muse you have become, a saint, you shall stay, the tragedy somehow have washed it all…

How do you introduce the dead?

Do you speak by making music with your bones? Maybe ashes by now?

How do you explain the shadow of your eyes?

The beautiful intensity of your dark soul?

Shall they ever understand, shall they ever knew?


Does it really matter after all? It must, because this is what keep me alive, this is what keep me going my sweet angel, the whispers, I listen in my sleep, oh I know, you are so close, when I speak about you, I promise remember?

Till my last breath you shall exhale…


Remember, our first kiss in Paris? Two ignorant lips sealing our goodbye, unknown to the child we were, those split second, shall never leave me.

The world should know, neither for sympathy or anger but if the souvenir of such sweetness can bring peace to one heart, we shall have won all over again, the purity of this magic second, frozen in time of the declining broken clock.


You had the luck of misfortune to feel the lost of a dear one, at the time, we did not realised, it would not be long before yours….

God we felt so alive remembers?


There is nothing surely, after such a twisted? I spend a long time wondering for you, for my sanity? But somehow diminishing fast into the abyss, I find the comfort of your memory, maybe that is all there is…


I bled and bled and never find happiness, so I turned to faith, the devotion of the hollow holiness and suddenly find your face again.


Gruesome the body they buried, ghastly and strange was our goodbye 

Striking, the angels are flying high tonight, you must be happy; I almost envy you…


Shall we end up this privately for the time being…? I think.




Author's Notes/Comments: 

Ode to my first love, passed away at 22 years old .R.I.P.

time might have pass, but the the memories have never fade...Margot.

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