On Midnight Walks and Sunglasses

Midnight walks in Paris,
and sunglasses,
when the garbage trucks hold court and city sidewalks
seem to chuckle beneath the rubber report of our soles.

So sue me: Achilles, even, had his heel
in the easy spires; the medieval brutality
made to reflect our greatest humanity!

O how faithfully we string him up,
dead and blood across Ecclesiastiland.

But back in Paris;
when the clock struck eleven
we were still in bed as the sooty brass
complained the hour.

You said, “j’écoutais Veruca Salt et Frank Black,

and I said, please spit out your french for I haven’t the knack.”

Just then a passing bum turned his dead suns to us,
so we giggled over another glass of the good stuff
when from the street their echoed the phraz

“Sous les pavees la plage!” and “Vive le LSD!”

So we shrugged off our shoulders the coats we had always been borne
descending the crypts to save our skins from the warmth.

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