Stinking pelt

Line 9
On the way home
The local tabloid
Spread on the floor
I pick it up
I read
This woman
87 y.o.
Was hit by a car
Jaywalking
Dead
This other woman
72 y.o.
Not crossing the street
Fast enough
Flattened
By a truck
This couple
79 and 76 y.o.
Crashed on the road
Were killed when
Another car
Hit them
Getting old
Is like a sinking ship
Water is cold
And you’re
Never sure
Where hell
Is coming from

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Alone on Mars

On Line 9
When hurling down with
The last train
The iron tracks screaming
And ghosts standing alert
You’re not exactly dead yet
But not
Exactly alive
Anymore
That moment in between
When you don’t
Have to think
Whether you’re
Dead or alive
Is comfortable
Enough
Somehow
You wish
It’d never end

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Bloody stench

Line 9 Saint Ambroise
So fucking drunk
So fucking late
Last train I can’t miss
So many stairs to get
Down there.
I remember
A friend once fell
On metro stairs just like that
Broke his head open
Drunk as he was
He didn’t suffer I guess.
So drunk and fucked up
Hurrying feebly down those stairs
I was thinking of him
I was thinking
I miss a step
I fall
I hit my head
And I’ll be here
Bleeding to death
With no help coming
And those dirty steps
Would be the last thing
I’d ever see
And the stench of death and fear
The last thing I’d ever smell.
Then again
I made it
Caught the last train
Someone had vomited
And stinked up the car
It was just fitting

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Polacks of the world

When I’m drinking
On the bench
People come to me
And somehow
They think
I’m Santa Claus.
Do you have money ?
Do you have a cigarette ?
I know then that I’m
Richer than they are.
Some consolation !
This time it’s dark
Winter, cold in Paris
Extreme funk I call it
When only real drunks
Can withstand
The mean wind.
These two fucks show up
They’re already fucked up
Money they want
So they ask for it.
Good luck motherfuckers!
They look like Polacks
They’re drunk like Polacks
I know they’re Polacks.
“What are you Polacks doing
Bumming in Paris
On a cold night like this,”
I ask.
“I’m only half Polack
My mother is Russian,”
Says the young one.
“My friend here is Russian,”
He adds.
Then you know for sure
They’re Polacks.
When you meet Polacks
They’re never Polacks
They’re Russian,
German, Bielorussian
Or Estonian or Lithuanian
If they have imagination,
Like it stinks
To be Polack
And maybe it does
I don’t know.
“We’re artists,”
The young one says.
“Sure,” I say.
I mean it,
Whatever my friend,
Who am I to argue ?
That’s the good thing
With Paris
On extreme funky nights
You’re still not alone
You can count
On Polacks.

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