After the Party
It always rained, or seemed toour escapades to play jazz,
Yoshi and me, Gabrielle and Simon,
Madeleine with the voice of angels.
We would leave the smoky trails,
sweat, a little tipsy from free drinks
and a wooden, miniture beer keg
that kept the tips which we would split
in the subterranean depths of a
Paris Métro, lying back against the tiles
Madeleine lighting and passing
the instruments of what would ultimately
bring about an early, untimely demise.
Yoshi and I, slightly apart from the rest,
his hand possessively draped on my shoulders,
yet the only time we ever kissed
was in a thunderstorm on the Rue Rivoli
and it was a rare, hot June day
not a rainy dawn in March.
Our voices raw, our fingers and toes tired,
counting stops, lemon drops to soothe
and alighting we would gulp the
freshness of a drizzling dawn,
to crash up stairs that led to eyries
in the gods, with cracked basins
and wooden shutters,
eating a crocque monsieur gone cold
and trying to revive a wilting flower
that we would be on the following morn
when studies and seriousness
was a music students bequest,
playing and singing jazz in clubs,
turning our tutors grey.
It always rained, with light just coming through,
Yoshi, nine foot tall and dimutive Gabrielle,
Madeleine who wore chic,
Simon who chose an easier life
and me,
Well, I'm still dancing after the party,
saving flowers in blotting paper
and making up chords in my head.
Poetry by Elle
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Written on 2015-07-04 at 20:29
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