In an upside down life, her body is both white and beautiful. She paints her body in ochre and azure blue, like the druids used to do. Wode for sure. Peut-etre que. Gallic shrug. Resistance.
Several pots of sticky red wine sunk with water snakes onto her breast. Sore crushed through she were. Nazi soldiers served first. Hand moulded she were. Spoilt. Sees into the life of things, arranges funerals for the occupying forces. Keeps her future ❤ safe. Resistance.
Other talonneurs slouch around the cafe, smoking unfiltered Gauloise cigarettes. It is 1942. Slave labourers from the east build final…
squabbling, fighting, reeling words
sore with myself.
so sore with myself
a world of regret,
This absence of you
it’s all I can do to write to you.
O! I wish I could turn words into wishes.
O! I wish my days would fall into line
my eyes rise for you
without the slightest disguise
This evening is so heavy, the rain has been & gone,
these days’ and nights’ penumbras,
turn into this swan
My rose garden ally, my sweet white flower of the May, sits amidst the clouds above the drive…
In Calvados you have your cross
And though we won, you most surely lost.
Your sacrifice, at twenty-four, to modern ‘wit’
Is nothing more than a crying bore.
Who now has read Alamein to Zem Zem
Your story of the war in the western desert?
For though you certainly knew how to kill
You did so with no draperies over your eyes.
Or soul. No deceptions, no disguise.
And when you were chained to an office,,
Hidebound behind the front line,
Somebody laid a coin upon your tongue
And lyric water sprang anew.
You very nearly lost your mind. So…
I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can, using for my defense only — silence, exile, and cunning.