she wanted me there
to sweat beside her
as close as she can get
to grinding against me,
to exhaust herself before me.

I wanted her there,
to provide a demonstration,
to feel the heat of her body,
to move with purpose
against her.

but God,
god what ever...

2002, the Notre Dame,
in her shadow I am walking
the wine of the evening still in my veins
and the laughter of feeble diplomats
I am conqueror of The One True Love
the master of Alsace
a son of Her Majesty's Secret Service
a bastard,
if you ask.

and she is waiting for me
in the Gutenberg
where the pigeons nest
in the loft
there are four candles
in old bottles
that give light to her perfected craft:
a wood table, a loaf of bread,
two empty glasses
an open packet
some crumbled pills,
a folded scarf

with this scarf I will blind him
with this wax I will brand him
with this wine I will fell him
with this bread I will fill him
with these drugs I will...

and with this woman,
I will waste my years
scurrying across the central Place
past the glowing doors of brothels and bars
and my many wretched masters
pulling strings for
sex tonight
for the nation
for protection
for why not

and with this woman,
he recalls,
and with this woman I shall wake and wake again
and swear to never take that bed
to never take that bed should I be free some day
when those who pull the strings
are on the other side
of such dark nights
the aid worker,
and the diligent professor,
then I must be free


so I want to sweat beside her
and she yearns me for to see,
but recalling the man of the past,
that monster so far removed
at last,
I draw down
and move out
and remain,
for now,

free