Stories

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

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Parents’ whine

Line 9 Any given day In the crowd A baby With a sucker ‘Tétine’ we call in French Téton in French being the word for Nipple Anyway All babies Seem to have them suckers Nowaday A baby Doesn’t have much Means of expression He can smile He can cry He can babble And that’s about It So when you put A sucker Into a baby’s mouth You just tell the kid Plain and clear SHUT THE FUCK UP The kid shuts up Of…

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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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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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

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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

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. G…

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…

I drink beer, a lot of beer And lots of beer on funky nights In the morning, my beer shit It’s Hiroshima and Nagasaki With all due respect To Sake and Lemon Sun. People offer me wine Or spirits I usually stick to beer I explain that with beer I never lose control No blanks Where you wake up Somewhere Not knowing How you got there With beer I always Find a way home. But that’s not why I like beer I…

Line 9 In the crowd This Asian woman Young Safety pins In her ears The nurse kind I think And I wish

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The day is over on Line 9 This woman bum With all her bags Is going to spend The night On the platform It’s cold but She’s home sort of So she’s getting comfortable And finally Takes her shoes off. That feels good Working girl

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Line 9 Last train To Bumfuck Somewhere It’s so sad Everybody in the car Is pretending That life is ok Even me Pretending That I’m alive

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Line 9 again Always a good place For lonely goons in winter. This one On the platform Standing there Looking at his feet It’s so late It’s so cold Old gym shoes Laces gone Just standing there Looking at his feet Looking As the crowd goes by At least This one doesn’t scream.

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Line 9 never changes This guy with his daughter

Wait

In this part of town At this time of night No girl that age Would be caught With her Daddy This is NOT His daughter

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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…

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

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