glug glug glug.... and it all down the drain

Woot! I am done for the week, it is over, I don't have to stand around emotionless serving customers at the bookshop !!! Ok ok on to more serious stuff... I need a new fountain pen, the old one is growing on me and I have a unquenchable desire for a new fountain to scribble all over with. Hopefully a parker vaccumatic, really saving up to get that bugger. Oh... and I have this current fascination with gypsies. Why ? I really don't know, maybe it is their lifestyle, free and nomadic. Also their superstitions and beliefs along with their music and of course who can forget, freedom ... hmm i think i already mentioned that. Anyway here is a poem which i Wrote a day ago and forgot all about it. here goes. 

Winter! Turn back time 

Autumn,Summer

Spring, Love in the air 

cool nights, breeze in her hair 

fluous language, no words can tell 

the volumes, the scriptures all permeate the unenlightened. 

And I stand 

the train is late, half past four.

Sickened, hundreds waiting, baggage 

clutter the station.

And she stands, resting her head against the 

mighty pillars holding up the architecture 

curves and lights, play, ignorance is bliss

the train arrives 

Fills the station with white fog 

Blocking vision 

suffocating senses, olympus ? only a state of Nirvana 

a God induced madness

relieving the past, i board the train.

Carrying my dead feet, 

rooted to the platform 

the moving animal 

the noise is unbearable. 

I am haunted by her figure. 

she stands there 

the shadows engulf her 

dark figure in the pillar. Ghostly, stained glass windows. 

Repeated announcements waft on the air

muffles, muffins being ordered from the boulangerie

I sit in the cabin, claustrophobic

and call out to her, still by the pillar. 

She stands outside the window 

the window, a frame of the mona lisa. 

Birth of venus by Michaelangelo

Le Grand Louvre.   

Her breath misty, in the winter cold 

steam emits 

misting up the window, I no longer see her, the beauty of Paris 

gone. 

Cathedrale De Notre Dame, her eyes look down in sympathy. 

Her Silhouette, remains entranced in my mind 

her figure, the Madonna 

stately, standing, justice and proud, 

Arc de Tromphie.

A horn blows through 

ricochetting through the station 

her body livens up 

the sleeping beauty, arising. Poison waning. 

Dawning, moving upon the train station 

pillars move, the smoke emits 

chug through, picking speed. 

blur. 

I run through 

abandoning, luggage all behind 

a passport and my wallet. 

the final moment, jump! 

My knees grazing on the hard floor. 

the blood line, on the marble flooring. A bohemian art. 

Back on the platform, still there ? 

ma cherie ? 

No more, the pillar abandoned, 

the Eiffel tower, her figure, structured and composed. 

The station abandoned. 

Only clocks and numbers, the Montmarte ! Oh Mon Dieu 

Band of thieves, darkness ensues, the station plunged into the Revolution. 

Red, the sign of the Communists, they have come. Dieu ! receves mon ame! 

The newspapers litter the station 

tales of fiction. a mess, tossed up by the wind. 

A note left, a scarlet letter, 

written in the language of the lovers. 

J'ai lassie la station,  

ne me suis pas plus !       

I have left the station 

follow me no more. 

The next train comes next morning 

3 'o' clock, Tres bien 

I rest, on the bench. Open to all. 

the magpie lands near. 

cold, cold. 

and faintly i can hear her sounds. 

Et le cloches sonnent 

sonnent a ma vie. sonnent dans la station 

echo d'echo. 

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