Solitary, ebonite, strapless and trilby

Young bohemians,
temporarily unstranded,
squeeze bread and beers,
urgent olives and nonchalant news
of demos, fashos and flics,
all unsmoked, with acutely
positioned piercings

I'm whole by default
squeamish of mutilation,
but the drummer hangs
by his ears
bristling with reference points,
provoking a rhythmic pause
pursued by dogs, and
igniting warm mouthings
in the picture post-garde,
rage against the ma-chien

Intelo girls in anticipated specs
or just proto-blind
cut their fingers on gilded splinters
under the genial grotesque stare
of bloated voodoo canvas.
They set me with the shrunken heads
keeping up disappearances

She's to the left
solitary, ebonite, strapless and trilby.
They can't afford the façade,
I feel the relief

12 February 2009wwBack to Toulouse poems

In a certain scruffy little side-street of Toulouse, mainly notable for for the sale of tagines, drugs and knocked-off cigarettes, you will find an equally scruffy but remarkably agreeable bar, about the size of a postage stamp.

Of a Thursday evening, it's full of students, eccentrics, the odd poseur and jazz. If that brings to mind bearded old traddie purists pontificating over pints of real ale, it may come as a shock that jazz is cool music for the young in France. I thought the place was great so I tried to capture the atmosphere in this poem.