Bed of roses

When I go home
Drunk and fucked up enough
Right off Line 9
There’s a garden
A Parisian garden
It’s small
There’s only one rose bush
Growing up in there
With no friend
That’s all there is
A single rose bush
I’m not even sure it has thorns
Parisian garden
But every spring
There are roses there
Pink, like roses should be
So, when I go home I was saying
And it’s summer
And there are roses
Coming home drunk and fucked up
I stick my nose in one of those roses
I even pull the stick
So I don’t have to bend
And I stick my nose into there
Like a slob
Like I’m a Viking or something
I know there could be malevolent insects
Biting my ass for being so sensible
I don’t care
And I smell it
I smell the rose
And I don’t know how to describe
What it does to me
Not enough words
Fucking roses
Right there
For all
Surviving like nothing else matters
So I’m thrilled by the scent
For the second it takes to come to my senses
Then I have to go home
Get there, in the elevator
And you get home
And you look at the clock
And you don’t understand

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Indian girl

Indian girl
From India I mean
All dressed up and sexy
Parisian girl all the way
Second generation
Coming home late on Line 9
Poor part of town
She’s smiling and tipsy
If Mom & Pop
Hadn’t emigrated
She’d still be in India
From some lower caste
Somewhere
Toiling for some rich Indian fuck
Getting forced married
To some poor fuck
Cleaning rich fuck’s shit
As far as she knows
She’s better off Parisian
Yet there’s some sadness in her
Troubles at home
With Mom & Pop
I guess

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Pale rider

You know how a horse
Can smell the stable
Alright, so I’m cool
Line 9 the same
There at Belleville, five Chinese
Three men, two girls
Speaking in Chinese, whatever
World wide world
Usually, in the last train
I’m among the drunks and the derelicts
And nobody cares
It must be early for so many good people to be there
They look happy
Good for them
The gay Paris I guess
Who wants to hear about misery
Especially misery of folks you don’t know
And don’t really care about
So you look elsewhere as to not cross
Someone’s eyes
And you listen to the boogie
In the hope of home.

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