The Bones of Paris

I move slowly through these narrow streets, bouncing from one wall to the next one I meet.

The cobble stones press up against random bones in my feet, I can feel the concrete-sidewalk in my hand, and I get back up to stand.

Where am I going and where was I coming from, this is dumb.

Maybe too much to drink for these two stubborn feet

Are these legs stilts or are they just numb?

I wish these bones could tell me where to go, a noise or maybe they could glow.

A glow in the dark skeleton on the Parisian streets, what a sight to see.

Those white bones begin to shine through my skin and my veins look like dark vines filled with wine from the port I had after the pints I tried.

The night seemed so filled with spirit and now I’m the only banshee walking down the dark side of the Rue de Rivoli and I’ve failed to collect my falafel before they closed.

The streets become green as my bones intensify with the glow of, me, my lines.

I’m radiating like some corner store trinket made for a keychain.

Then I think of that gal Rosalie and all that green turns red and I get a bit rosy.

Is it the wine that she offered me, that makes me feel so warm, or or is this love? because this is not the norm.

My stomach streams and we’re back to green as I hurl my soliloquy onto the cobble stone street. We’re making luminescent rectangles and lines between stones that glow with the glory of all the mistakes I made today. This afternoon I started with an aperitif that should have been consumed with a baguette and some lunch meat.

Rosalie if you could only see me now would you have commented on my brow.

Would you have pushed your chair up against my table if you knew the end to this poor lads fable.

He hugs a chain hovering over what looks like absinthe draining towards the river Seine. An absent minded man who forgot to give you his name, and I’m sure you’d be glad he did, I apologize my dear… he is dead.

These bones were never meant to last longer than a day and that’s the price a dead man must pay. One night out for the stone-man that laid these streets many moons ago, but when the time comes… he will begin to glow. He will purge that vessel that gave him the fresh scent of the living. The catacombs are calling and those radiant bones will be gathering back to the walls he calls home. Every so often we let him go wander, as a sign of appreciation, that I’m sorry to say, he usually squanders. So if you meet this man in the mist, give him a kiss, but don’t let him piss on the hope that you’ll see him again and give you a grin that made you go ooh -la -la.