Saturday, April 3, 2010
From the coddled, easy life he is jet-thrusted into the veins and battle scarred arteries of the city he loves. The train sheek, sheek, sheeks and the chic,chic,chic Parisian women live up to their reputation from toe to coiffure. Ah, the city of springtime love. But not now as she spits him in the face and fumbles his coat with icy fingers while he limps along with arthritic knives in his hip and knee and the Georges Pompideau is closed so no succour from Lucian Freud. The computer lied, the language is not remotely like what it taught him but after a friendly pernod and a new sun on his back he knew there was a poem there somewhere.