i was reading the monk when i realised i was in paris with my mum. it was early morning, still dark, and she had already gone for her morning walk. she had been taking pictures of unemptied rubbish bins around champs-élysées and abandoned rent-a-bikes everywhere that she said look like dead bodies.
“they used to push a lot of maghrebiens into the seine you know.”
i don’t remember what i said in return. but i was reading the monk and had gotten to the bit when rosario/matilda was sent to the dungeon with the baby still in her belly, and i found it hard to think about death in such a beautiful city. though i saw the bullet holes on the walls of buildings near where the paris commune was. i stuck my index finger in one of them and the sandstone felt cold.
“they used to drink their blood.”
my mum makes things up all the time, she lies like ambrosio, but sometimes it’s hard to read her expression, if she’s seriously joking or has gone totally bonkers. she hates black men too. she once refused to watch hotel rwanda because she didn’t feel like watching a bunch of negroes shooting at each other. i was up to page 434 as i thought of these things.
“why don’t you go with us to nice it’s nicer there.”
nice one, mum. i hate finishing off a good book. i wish it would go on forever. that’s why i sometimes read a book back to front so it ends where it begins and thus never ends. how’s that for a bushism. trés zen, non !? i don’t have an exit strategy for this poem but that’s alright coz i do not accept responsibility for it or for any other thing in my life. i think i should never have started it in the first place.
*pilfered from here