“No Furs on Paris”


A delicious, effective boy from within the corner
stared back at her with these warm-hearted eyes
& with old-fashioned hands he tried to untie
her knots of information, acquirements, fashions
“you must be looking up, are you?”
smiling again, exactly, unnecessarily, turning with a shark’s sound
“some… which… it’s with who I came?”
he might’ve followed her but never came to visit
she said “I’m going… come enter, fleet angrily, cheap
moment, brother” – he couldn’t swallow
apologetic, almost forgotten knives – love should be bright,
but he just wanted to fuck her, leave town
thinking he’s an affair
or something worth a mention
but hey, mon party younger, fresh devoted thing
kneeling at her doorstep, you’re but square, self-satisfied
waste bin on the corner
cats that sleep on my scent
making my father blush
cent in the gutter, forgotten matchstick, cum
on the carpet – sit down with my people instead
“was with Jean, so she kindly…”
how could you & this come to that & any of her?, cause I wonder
“yes, we’ve read your book, if that’s how you call it, some
of it is quite big…”
in me you had it perfect, regret’s expression
classified, as grey began to take over
jungle graffiti, you’ll go to stay
old, move on, turning to boiling cabbage
which splashes S.O.S., “Think toes in the middle…”
on rusty warehouse’s doors
realizing is, so it sees ties of blood
curious but blank, “I enjoyed your questions”
it backs out slowly, “how do you call it? such nasty?”
beastly is the word, I left before you
& as red days progressed into mythical orange nights
in their search for palpitating
cloying necessities – cigarettes, moons & minarets,
women like you & tombstones
you tell them she took you over, ceasefire
your marquises’ eyelids turned cold
they walked away untouched
letting us three breathe
spilling no dawn on gas lamps
leaving no furs on Paris

Copyright © 2012 by A.J. Kaufmann. All rights reserved.