Memoire

Another piece from the insomniac period. This particular piece had its beginnings in Paris, but went through many versions.

Paris, nous avons
But always?
That is a long time,
and already she
sells her history
to the tourist buses
and maybe she
always has, maybe
we all always
have sold our
pasts as presents
to future ourselves.
But what what
what do we do
Do we feed
our children
Ashes of perfect
re-pasts, pasts
That have passed
passed through knives,
the abbatoir where
artists abide
and men with pens
who cleverly sculpt
a future of futures
where no humans
can abide.
The political men
the power seekers
the politicians they
they ride all,
all the antiques
These monuments
we must carry
carry we must
Rider and horse
Horse and rider
Blindered, blinkered
bitted, battered
So why do I start
I begin I remand
Poor Paris pitiless
Paris, plentiful Paris
of cities not oldest
nor biggest, nor boldest
I am here
Here am I
Am I here
That is why.