Line 9
The last one
Everything
Has to go
Men, Women, Beasts
And whatnots
So I listen to
Last train’s
Boogie
I hear an old friend
Saying
Fuck you
Tchikatchick, Tchikatchick
Going nowhere
Never born
Line 9
Tchikatchick, Tchikatchick
Tag Archives: Bums
Pale riders
Line 9
Old man
Looks like
Clint Eastwood
Only with a cane
And he’s French
And he’s a bum
And he’s no Clint Eastwood
Oh well
Good try
Here comes
George Clooney
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
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.
Black Magic Woman
There I was
Drinking on the bench
Minding my own
When this black woman
Rather young if not pretty
Comes and talks to me.
Her hands are
Tattooed all over
Up to the wrists,
Not her face
Body I don’t know
Just the hands
Tattooed like a beautiful
Work of art.
“Why just the hands,” I ask.
“I was at a wedding,” she says
As if that would explain everything,
“But it ain’t gonna last.”
“Nothing lasts,” I say.
She laughs
Shows me her hands
Let me touch them
And I can imagine those hands
All over me
Understanding
Not judgemental
Soothing.
Then she has to go
Of course.
I look at my bench
Someone had carved a heart
In the wood.
Old story I guess.
Stories 