The river swallowed
her, turned
her into a bolus, slid
her into a slow stomach in
the middle of pre-primeval Nantes.
And waited.
Time churned, silts settled,
her tender toes now tap twenty
thousand leagues beneath
the Jules Verne Museum beneath
a dancing salon named
Sea of
Dreams.
Her serpent twines
expectant near her cunt – ou,
disons-nous, near the école élémentaire
named after Gustave Roch, scholar
of surfaces topological until he
died untimely in the coils
of tuberculosis . . .
Her nipple
perks the Palais
des Sports de Beaulieu,
where Real Madrid played
PAOK Thessaloniki
in a beautiful ’92
Eurocup
game.
her, turned
her into a bolus, slid
her into a slow stomach in
the middle of pre-primeval Nantes.
And waited.
Time churned, silts settled,
her tender toes now tap twenty
thousand leagues beneath
the Jules Verne Museum beneath
a dancing salon named
Sea of
Dreams.
Her serpent twines
expectant near her cunt – ou,
disons-nous, near the école élémentaire
named after Gustave Roch, scholar
of surfaces topological until he
died untimely in the coils
of tuberculosis . . .
Her nipple
perks the Palais
des Sports de Beaulieu,
where Real Madrid played
PAOK Thessaloniki
in a beautiful ’92
Eurocup
game.
Image: le jardin, by Max Ernst. For other stories it inspired,
see Magpie Tales.
Passing through the smokers out behind the Dufferin Mall, I caught the scent of that old round table lighter in my grandmother’s apartment, or maybe the Zippo my dad let me play with because he never did get around to refilling the thing . . . a whiff of the fuel, the smell of flint against steel, and the chime of metal on metal when you snapped it shut. Except that this one belonged to a younger man, who had taken a pass on those disposable plastic jobs for something more substantial, flipping it open just out of the corner of my eye.
