by Joshua Converse05 Jul 2013
In my dream-
In my dream-
We are in a drawing room facing French doors,
Looking at out the falling snow on a falling dusk
And Gertrude Stein is saying- saying
Gertrude Stein is saying
You are a lost generation
But in French, of course,
Vous êtes perdue
And we are in Paris
In Poverty (naturally)
And the snow is coming down outside like a life sentence.
And we walk then, from the room and the house
Arm in arm like the lovers we forgot to be
And near the freezing river we stop and there is a stuttering white silence;
A dead man is frozen in the river. We do not speak to him until I ask
Have you coins?
I ask him
Have you coins for your eyes?
And you are saying to me I should have named the flowers for your lips
And you are saying No one forgets me like you
But it’s my dream-
And we are happy beside the frozen river in the snow, arm in arm,
Alone in the silence of the shouting city.
And when you kiss me, against etiquette, I open my eyes
-hold them wide and see the gilded Tower vanish,
I taste your whiskey neat, you my bourbon water
Your shadow swallows
Swallows the swallows who nest in the Spring
Swallows the City
the City of Lights,
and spits out the night
Skin on skin burns thirsty
Sparkles, cracks and leaves the bright world dark
The warm world cold.
And it was only a dream, remember,
When we slept on the kitchen floor
Of an empty café in Montmartre
And dreamed the same dream
Of butcher knives at dawn.
And Yes, of course,
Far from Paris
Bereft of you
I know she was right,
I know Gertrude Stein was right to say it
Vous êtes une génération perdue