Shortlist Writ, Pt. II

Excerpt From “Boulevard St. Laurent”

Graphic Eric Bent

II.
A taxi surge, burning co co ricos on the ‘ti pains,

a billiards break, lechers creep out of the cinema.

“What’s tonight’s feature?”

“Valley Vixxxens.”

“Whiskey. With water this time.”

Drunk girls in gladiator sandals,

ink tubes on the front steps on HDV,

a discarded skeleton key and butts from Vogue super slims.

Three summits around the crater,

a boiling lake, prowling men in wolf masks–

are they feral? Do they bite?

Abandoned camps, tarp rooftops up there.

Drink supplicant, Christ save us from the eruption.

“Four-fifty.”

“Maudit crisse.” The face of a dying queen

for fourteen years of labour

and not even one bride to show for it.

“Can I pay you in pretty words?”

“Vous avez de fun?”

“You’re a creep.”

A dress in Twin Peaks red, she sang at the Blue Dog

sweet sincerely and stank of it,

worse than the creep. A desperate hand copped,

begging by the brisket in the window.

“Whiskey and water. Do you smell the sulphur?”
“I smell three centuries of shit rising from the river

and fried catfish. Four-fifty, plus tip.”

Sorcery in the woods,

bodies on the slopes and in the bowers.

August odour on the street: barbecue and urine.

Sausages slip to the sidewalk at the fair.

“Fordel my lips. Can I buy you a drink?”

A hangover shake in the earth. The statues quiver.

Ash spumes behind the radio tower,

whistling shrieks as the Cocytus boils.