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SLEEPLESS IN PARIS
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THRU PERIPHERAL VISION But Paris
turned out to be
a brutal night—
the stuff poets
are made of.
I walked about Paris
wandering aimlessly
w/ Henry Miller in my thoughts
& my eyes filled
w/ beautiful Parisian women.
My thoughts turned
lusty—
girls in stockings & skirts
even in late November.
I keep turning my head
& looking
& seeing all these
gorgeous women
& then I go back
to my hotel room alone.
I lay in the bed
unable to sleep
tho my eyes are heavy
with fatigue
but mind and body
refusing to shut off.
Paper thin walls—
I hear all the sounds
coming from
the rooms next to me.
It sounds like—
no it couldn’t be—
talk about
a slap in the face:
The couple
in the room next door
are doing it
& thru paper thin walls
I get to hear
Everything and
I do mean everything.
“Ahhhhhh, ah, oooohhhhh!”
After not
getting laid
not getting lucky
I am treated to
the orgasm
of another person.
“Ahh, oui, ah oui!”
the bed is squeaking.
Suffice to say
I woke up
in a really hurry
to get back to Amsterdam.
I caught the first train
& went straight to Amsterdam
without stopping in Brussels
to collect 200 Belgian francs.
It was a long,
long train ride
but not nearly
as long as that night
I hope I never repeat.
