Impasse des Troubadours, St. Paul de Fenouillet, France
what happened on the impasse des troubadours
must not be forgotten or forgiven even if you
want to let it all go away and stay there
in the gutters of the penitents
unshaven begging for easy scents
jasmine morning flavored air
tinged with no regret
hearing only rattling
the endless cycle of howling
that deezil rap swarming
its warning
up the impasse
don’t you worry about me
ever coming back
cause i will never leave
you see
you are never free
only more or less
entangled
in the web
collecting random thoughts
as if they were jewels plucked
out of the mud under your feet
but who knows what’s a sapphire
and what’s not
go and think about blue
until you forget what blue is
this eerie cold july day
autumn tramontana
the sky glass blue
swirled with spectral clouds
you admit you made it up
go admit the true fake history
that a certain apollodorus
from sampiere sicilia
sailed away at night
with his pharaoh queen
a certain Cleopatra VII
yes that one the one
destined for her short
high road to immorality
whispering to her lover
sail me home to my
Alexandria dahlin
cause i’ve got me
my date with destiny
yes apollodorus wept
but he obeyed he did
ordered his crew
on a course to the Nile
where he wrapped his
dahlin in their bedroll
made of sturdy linen cloth
embroidered in the style
of ancient Selinunte
thyme and rosemary
vines and olives
little azure birds
and he snuck her in
to the guarded palace
where a certain
impatient julius
sucking grapes
calculating odds
mulling his move
queen to QN6
awaited
is it fake movie trivia
that two grangers
stewart and farley
unrelated it is said
performed the role
of this possibly fake
sicilian with the greek name
who wandered off the stage muttering
i do not want to stay here
where it is so beautiful
but i know that staying
only makes it ugly
i will sail home to sampiere
to end my days selling
to the credulous penitents
who swoon at my door
the veritable prayer cloths
cut from the bedroll
scented still
with our lust
her and mine
that’s right you apollodorus you
go pluck your fucking lyre
and recite the story once more
of what happened that night
how the pharaoh queen
slid so easily into the
bedroll’s folds
whispering
don’t worry
about a thing
the daughter of isis
has powers
she’ll
make it all
turn out
all right
you’ll see
she spoke
that way
in short
sometimes
quippy lines
Neruda lines
incanting
the way
the holy gods
like to do
flinging down
heaven’s blue
to troubadours
stuck here
in our eternal
impasse
(July 24, 2017)
.
Photograph by Diana Young.
studio arago 