*
Ate an illegal Russian roll, passed out in my chair,
the vision in the darkness behind my eyes swinging
wildly as if a plane is falling dangerously through
pockets in the air, woke up to find I am someone else
The dark fears of James Bond’s aide-de-camp “Kissing
Floor” replaced by the optimism of a little official who
accosts her colleagues regarding Madame Bakkop and
Mr Coffee, a little jewel sent by the indefatigable Interpol
A message conferring joy in the quaintness of the names,
a welcome reprieve from reading Baudelaire, trying to
remain sane while his sensuous descriptions shock the
life out of me, fighting back with Cantharmonie, Grand Dieu
Nous te bénisons, and Le Malade Imaginaire, Argan in idiotic
argument with Toinette while Angélique is languishing for her
new amour; Thomas Diaforus struggling with the héliotrope,
a French textbook instructing on the role of family, I sigh
Content in this mental chaos, many strings representing the
multifarious nature of reality that keep me from being bored
and losing consciousness…
*
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