vendredi 18 mars 2016

Pacific Daylight Time

Pacific daylight time.
Rosa Chanina. Double shot. In vod.
The open bar philosophy.
Just name the brand. That goes.
Diesel dièse. Bémol. Montre molle.
Flat. Sharp.Treble clef. Swing.

Pacific delight time.
Book of faces. Fainting.
Reading me ? Papa. Tango. Charlie.
Save Our Souls. Dare you ?
Paris time. Grey gazouillis.
Bata clan. Inch Allah. Fainting.

Pacific daylight time.
And the national dog awareness day.
Get over the jack of spades. Mayday.
Whiskey Hotel Yankee Alpha Wiskhey Hotel Yankee.
Holy S ! Burgundy. Dali. Houdini.
The open bar philosophy.

mardi 4 décembre 2012

Soon christmas will be here

She glances through the windows at the joggers running around the Central Park reservoir. No sound reaches the eighth floor. Lying on the sofa she distractedly chews the brown strip bar she had just bought, furtively, in front of Saks Fifth Avenue. A bitter taste that rises to the head and reminds her, unconsciously, of an afternoon she had spent on the deck of the boat of Jim Baker on Lake Tahoe. Jim wanted to take her on a tour of the brothels of the Nevada desert. She had given him a blowjob and it had made the day. Jim is dead anyway. An accident driving his Mustang. Two years? Three can not be.

There are no more leaves on the trees at this time of the year and one can guess that snow will come without further delay. Another winter.
She will soon be fifteen years old. Esther, her mother, had promised to call to celebrate. But she had already made the same promise last year, and with her trip to the Maldives islands, she had not been able to respect that promise. The communications are not perfect, it seems, in those islands.

Anyway she has bought several of the brown strips for the occasion and a few bottles of Russian vodka as well. In the jacuzzi on the terrace this should do the trick. She puts her shawl back on her shoulders. It's cold tonight.

She puts a Coldplay disc on, and watches her face nicely madeup in the mirror. She gently caresses her legs. They are smooth and thin. She could call Mike the concierge. She knows how much he loves to take her the doggy way on the sofa with his face turned towards Central Park. Once a week he takes her like this, violently. Sometimes twice, when it burns too much between her legs. Well it's definitely too cold tonight. Nothing more to be said, she will call him.

It seems as Mike will never end. He had promised, already a quarter of an hour ago, to be there in five minutes. He must still be commenting the last baseball game with Zak, his buddy from Harlem, in front of the building under the red canopy of the front hall. She is trembling of cold and hot. She looks down at the small horse carriages passing with their hord of hilarious tourists perched on them. They look so small. It is decided, if Mike is not there in ten minutes she will join them. She looks at her Rolex in a hagard way. There. Fifteen minutes already. She opens the windows, puts the shawl with great caution back on the sofa, adjusts her hair in the mirror, climbs the railing and jumps.

The phone rings. Three rings before the answering machine begins to register .

"Sweetheart it's Esther, your mother, you need to tell me me what you want for your birthday and for Christmas. This is coming so fast"

Yes it is true, it will soon be Christmas.

Oyster babe

Rainbow brings sunshine.
And your smile gets mine.

Café and french kiss.
Paris and also Venice.

Dancing naked in a casino.
Licking lips and a malboro.

This world is our oyster baby.
Go honey. La vie you and me.

Summer squall

He had left hurrily, leaving nothing but his sail, on the horizon
Shaky signature, to the vivid nature of our souls, you moron

On the pier, i laid down, the letter in my hand, falling words of ink
The squall of the night, in one bite, had left all of the past sink

May you drown, with your misteries, man of sweet words
Let me drown, with my memories, of sad vibrating chords