Parisians Poem by Jan Oskar Hansen

Parisians
Paris is often on my mind, she was a pianist in an unfashionable
night-club had a smoky voice- at least 40 a day- she looked like
a night without sex was a paltry end of her struggle to keep her
skin, the glowing youth of remembrance. Our eye blinks collided
trolldom? She was a hex and I was drawn to her charm.
In the morning I heard her in the kitchen she was pouring a drink
that if water is added looks like milk- She went into the loo and
had a pee and I was quietly grateful it was not a dump.
I drifted off to sleep and only woke up when she awoke me having
made toast and coffee- She wanted me to stay, but I had a date at
twelve reading English written poetry for a group of Parisians
middle class twits, who would lamely applaud while thinking they
could have done it better in their legionary accent they thought was
an elevated a form of expression and we dumb people meekly have
accepted as a truth, the accolade of refinement. My French, elderly
seductress was from Morocco and her father had been an officer in
the army who when he came to France was offered a job as a doorman,
a job he refused he went home and shot himself.
Yet I love the underbelly of Paris, it is where the poor and loses live
and if one of the succeed Paris middle-class will claim them and say
they were typical Parisians.