Exit Crimée and walk along Avenue de Flandre

Image

Image © Alicia Khoo

Coffee, cigarettes and croissants, Parisian petit-dejeuner. Pickpockets not
optional but complimentary. You won’t see them coming until you get home

and realize your underwear is missing. I meet a curator from a museum in
Venezuela, she is here for a world conference on what to do with the

evolution and possible demise of a certain art form. I meet a young Dutch
girl and we spend many nights sipping licorice tea all
bundled up in H&M sweaters ranting about politics, sparkling by sunsets in

Chinese traiteurs moaning and grieving about lost love and how much we
adore an English chef who keeps serving us dessert and croutons he made

from pain tradition on top of Caesar salads drowned in melted grilled goat’s cheese;
a boy from Brazil who came here for two days from Barcelona and ended up

staying for three years sitting with me at night in front of the Eiffel Tower watching
it glitter and talking about the sand of São Paulo, and then we go off to Oberkampf

and meet an Australian boy who almost died of cancer five times and now just loves
to dance and be generally irreverent. We migrate in flocks to this city to find something

new or old to get addicted to and abandon, get so angry and feel so alive, cuss and say how
much we hate Paris and it smells like pee but we always come back to the métro

graffiti, racial wars, poetic violence, all trying to secretly overcome the grave by
becoming personal moveable feasts and inimitable livers. If you ever recognize me

again, I’ll meet you at Jacques Bonsergent where we pissed our skirts laughing
and whistling that bitter winter night, so many possibilities ago, before we both broke and

died and died and left hope and ideals laying in ashtrays, cafés and boulangeries where people
spit out coffee and exclaim how burnt and sour it is and it is not Sarkozy’s fault

this time but our own damn fault.

© Alicia Khoo

NaPoWriMo Day 22

Eblouie par la Nuit by ZAZ

Crimée est une station du métro de Paris sur la ligne 7, dans le 19e arrondissement de Paris.
La station est ouverte en 1910.

Cette station porte le nom de la guerre de Crimée (1855-1856), presquîle dUkraine sur la mer Noire, vit la coalition comprenant la Turquie, le Royaume-Uni, la France et le Piémont affronter la Russie qui fut vaincue, notamment avec la prise de Sébastopol. Le conflit se termina par le traité de Paris en 1856.
Bassin de la villette , Canal de l’Ourcq, Le quartier commerçant de l’avenue de Flandre ( Flandre, Monoprix, fleuriste, bars-tabac, restaurants)

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27 thoughts on “Exit Crimée and walk along Avenue de Flandre

  1. There are people walking in your poetry, like a rush hour in the municipality of policies—for a slow life, maybe?
    I would love to see your imprints, for my blinds would love the colour of everything that connects with a human—like a dusty meal of noon and a showy affair of night—priced and taxed.

    A good one, Alicia.

    • Haha Pawan, even your comment is pure poetry! I suspect your speech might sound like this too! I know sometimes I tend to speak surrealist when I write too much surrealist poetry. Thanks for coming by and the lovely comment.

  2. This poem had such style, I was at the edge of my seat in the narrative which was exquisite. I am very jealous of how contemporary and cool you sound in your tone. and topics.

    • Thanks fellow poet Wuji, what a kind compliment you have bestowed upon me. Perhaps seven years of rejection by publishers before I finally got published in an anthology did me some good. Poetry was the hardest thing for me to write until I was 21, before that it was only short story fiction. It was difficult for me to break out of form and structure and I hated rhyming (still kinda do haha) 😀

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