A Collection of My Paris Poetry (all written while living there).

THE PARIS TEST

Drunk most days
But happied up
By this magical city
I breathe and smell
And I will stop
And see
Paris
That is the test
To see her beauty
Like most females
She needs to be really seen
Smelled
Appreciated
Written about
Treated gently
Yes, I have been seduced

DIRTY PARIS

Too much dog shit
On the pavement
No one seems to care
The Metro smells like a urinal
Disease carrying mosquitoes
On the trains in November
Homeless guys litter the streets
Criminals roam and rape
Keep your metal shutters down
When you sleep
Don’t you peep
At my Paris
My drunken
Fucked up
Slutty
Dirty
Paris
Don’t worry baby
My lights are on
My shutters are open
Injecting scotch through my mouth
If that’s what it takes
To keep you
My love
My precious
Piss smelling
Paris

IT’S A HELL OF A PARIS

Too early
Always too early
A symptom of having no life
No code for the door
Wander down the street
Meet a busy street
Is that THAT street?
Oh yeah, Champs-Élysées!
And there’s the old Arc de Triomphe with the sun just above it
Sit down on a bench
As the Citroens speed by
Hangover lifted
I think Bukowski was right
It’s a hell of a Paris!

FEMALES

It’s not easy
To write
About women
The female species
Without getting
A hardened
Resolve
The perfect opposite
Like south on a magnet
When we are the north
Stuck together
On the streets
In a heavenly
Fleshy smash
I walk down
The Paris streets
Envious of dogs
Please
Just a quick sniff
Just bite me
If you don’t like me

PARIS BINGE

Well
I’m nearly out of scotch
And the shutters
Behind my eyes
Are starting to come down
The ice
And the mixers
Not far behind
My teeth
Almost too sensitive
To eat
But I figure
That was a pretty cool way
To waste four days

WHERE DO THE FUCKED UP FRENCH GO?

I walk down my street
To get more scotch
Sure, they’re all out there
It’s Friday night
Nine PM
I wanna see
I wanna smell
The fucked up French
I walk past a café
They’re all drinking
Some hot chicks
And I try to feel them
Try to smell the fucked up a niss
Of the French
But it’s not there
I return with scotch
I study them
What’s wrong with them?
I sniff the air
Hoping to smell the fucked up a niss
They should be drunk
They should be dark
But it’s not there

WAITING TO BE DISCOVERED

A drunk girl squats
On my overgrown grave
Unaware
Of my life longer despair
Her lip service
Gives me hope
And she even lets
A ripper fart go
Into the air
All power and pride
As she considers
The beauty of the moon
My cold white bones
Rattle in expectation
Of a slow golden shower
Arriving maybe
In a few more cold winters
As she wipes
She notices something
On my headstone
Something I wrote
“WAITING TO BE DISCOVERED”
And she thinks
That was pretty cool
For a dead
Unknown
Unloved
Old guy

IMBIBING BETWEEN THE SLAVERY

Imbibing between the slavery
A slight reprieve
From the shameless thief
Truth drowning reality
My vision returns
Searching for proof
Sunset gone
Sunrise set
Please don’t wake me
Before I forget

SCORPIO SNAKE

I was born
A Scorpio snake
Longing for
The white hot desert
As pure as a needle tip
Under a naked flame
As I slither
And scratch around
The dirty streets
Of humanity
Trying my best
Not to bite
Or sting
Down Rue de Bellevue
To deposit the glass
From the previous nights
Of drinking
And writing
Trapped
In a circle of fire
As the bottles shatter
I see a handsome man
Outside the fleuriste
Giving a fresh bouquet of flowers
To a young smiling beauty
Unaware
Of the silent sobs
From the plants
Decapitated for colour
Euthanized for endeavour
In the city of love
And romance
As I go back
The Parisian sun
Appears from behind
The grey clouds
Warming my skin
Before it is shed
And gifted
To the night
Once again

KILLING BECAUSE YOU CAN’T GET A HOT BLONDE

From the beginning
Of time
Killing has been
Religiously
Enshrined
A sickness
Born out of dust
Distrust
Disbelief
Disappointment
And disgust
In the human race
They say
There must
Be more
Than the pathetic
Us
Paris weeps
Blood on her streets
Once again
When will we ever learn
What we are?
And that
It starts
And ends
With us?
Young bearded cowards
Hiding behind
Murderous guns
Celebrating death
More than life
Becoming unholy
In the name of holy
No warriors
Fear the beautiful
Free minds
And bodies
Of women
Throw down
Your guns
And then
Can you even
Really
Face a woman?
A beautiful woman?
Let alone a real man
How do you plan
To take those 72 virgins?
No talk?
No foreplay?
No grooming?
Rape?
In YOUR so called Heaven

LEAVING PARIS

The Celtic jewel
A nice snapshot in history
Hemingway
Almost earned her respect
And I used to think
All Parisian girls
Would be like Betty Blue
The Arc de Triomphe
And the Eiffel Tower
Still stand
Just as sure
As when
Hitler rolled in
Since then
The cup of political correctness
Hath runneth over
Spilling poison
All over the map of Europe
And cities such as Paris
Have suffered the affliction of dilution
Homogenized people
Slowly being milked of their humanity
The enemy is not from within
But without
Paris is one of those places
Like Stonehenge
The energy is good
The air is smooth
Soft
And the place itself
Is at peace
With itself
I finally found a good Beaujolais
It’s a 2014 Brouilly
I owe Paris this poem
She has been good to me
Kept me safe
During dangerous times of occupation
It’s a nice place to wake up in
And always will be
Eventually the French resistance
Will rise up
Just as before
It took time
It always takes time
You got under my skin
Six months in Paris
Will draw a tear in my eyes
When I leave
It already has

Paris

I miss my time in Paris.

I was there just over six months.

It was where I started writing poetry.

I got a wonderful, but small apartment, with a balcony, in Rue de Bellevue, in Boulogne-billancourt, a nice area near the river.

I remember the first night I spent in that apartment alone, I was so excited to be in Paris. I had fast wifi, hit the booze and watched the Robert Mitchum movie, Farewell My Lovely, which somehow seemed perfect for the occasion.

I got a great teaching job there, within two weeks of arriving, teaching conversational English, mainly to people connected to the acting profession: artists, musicians, actors, directors, producers, technicians, computer people.

After the Bataclan attacks, I decided to quit my job and just write for the remaining months of my lease. The morning before the attacks, I was wandering around the Republique area, very early, before a class, looking for a Chinese huo guo restaurant. I recall thinking how many homeless people there were sleeping on the benches, and around the monument. Of course, next evening they would have to move on, after the shootings.

I got to the stage that I was drinking a bottle of Label 5 there nearly every night, yet in all my time there, I never found any trouble, no fights, no arguments with the locals or the neighbours, everything was nice and easy.

In Paris, I always felt free and easy, and also anonymous. In London, you can feel anonymous, but the city and weather is too heavy on ones shoulders. In Munich, I always feel slightly oppressed, and watched. In Paris, for example I always used the balcony, but in Munich I never feel comfortable using it.

I have to believe there is a calming energy for me there, in Paris. And perhaps most others who live there.

Waking up in Paris carries that feeling of contentment and happiness and excitement too. I felt it the first morning and it never left me, the whole six months.

Yes, it is always a nice place to wake up in.

I wrote this poem just before I left, for New Zealand:

LEAVING PARIS

The Celtic jewel
A nice snapshot in history
Hemingway
Almost earned her respect
And I used to think
All Parisian girls
Would be like Betty Blue
The Arc de Triomphe
And the Eiffel Tower
Still stand
Just as sure
As when
Hitler rolled in
Since then
The cup of political correctness
Hath runneth over
Spilling poison
All over the map of Europe
And cities such as Paris
Have suffered the affliction of dilution
Homogenized people
Slowly being milked of their humanity
The enemy is not from within
But without
Paris is one of those places
Like Stonehenge
The energy is good
The air is smooth
Soft
And the place itself
Is at peace
With itself
I finally found a good Beaujolais
It’s a 2014 Brouilly
I owe Paris this poem
She has been good to me
Kept me safe
During dangerous times of occupation
It’s a nice place to wake up in
And always will be
Eventually the French resistance
Will rise up
Just as before
It took time
It always takes time
You got under my skin
Six months in Paris
Will draw a tear in my eyes
When I leave
It already has

Review of Pork Pie, New Zealand Film

I have to say when I started to watch this my first reaction was, “Oh no, another copy of an old classic!”

But, I have to say I was pleasantly surprised. Unlike Hunt for the Wilderpeople, which I loathed, I found this movie to be very enjoyable.

Throw in a fresh modern script, fantastic shots of New Zealand scenery, and good acting, to make the exact right balance, and at the end I was thinking, that was exactly how an old classic should be remade.

Can totally recommend it. Like how it shows just how tiny New Zealand is, in many ways, a fact Kiwis who live there often lose sight of.

Leaving UK

This time visiting the UK feels very flat.

The same thing happened to me when I used to visit Christchurch in New Zealand. Each time I visited it felt worse and worse, until eventually it had the earthquake.

I have the similar feeling with England. It is either cultural differences, financial disaster, something related to Brexit, war, or a natural disaster.

But I feel something is going to go down here.

I am heading back to Europe and then the East.

I miss the East. Everything about it.

I am Eastern bound.