I took a lit Novena. A petition
to cool the furnace that was Paris, August, 2012.
---a mistake Les Bonnes never forgave
She smoked my last bag of hash as I visited
friends in Montmartre. She packed her bags
sans a farewell taste of her Lethean sex.
Not a trace. Not even a whisper of fragrance...
I would have liked to finger fuck her once more,
keeping the scent on my fingers. I would not have
washed my hands for days. Accosting strangers
with an antic élan, "Yes! She broke my heart, but her
mons veneris smelled so dulcet! Here!", thrusting my
finger under their noses, "Smell!"
Parisians are led by the nose. Americans by
the belly and eyes.
Disparate integers came into my head as I attempted
to create an Algorithm for the invasive scents of the
Metro at 3 A.M.. Logic failed me and the equation never
came. She is still gone, along with the embodied
musk which twists an imaginary vine round my left
Leave the girls and study mathematics.
My prick weeps as I laugh.
A terrible current is running through me and fuses
with the piss-tinted street lights of Paris. Across from
the Place de la Bastille a beggar shouts at me in Serbian.
How did I know?
One solution: My prick is a sail tacking this
fragile bark towards Champs Elysées. Paralleled trees
line the street and walkways, neat as a discovered equation.
The floral tides tickling my nose tell me Tuileries
Paris has no mercy. I took a train south and watched
her disintegrate, Seurat style, into pointlessness.