mardi 30 juin 2015

Mâlain Diaries 3 - Ode to the Roquefort

Mâlain Diaries 3 - Ode to the Roquefort

Bring me that smelly-feet cheese,
Oh King of Alsatians;
that rarest of creams raised in
damp caves of old.

Thou art a living piece of
pastures’ past
my sweet  wet
stinking
Bishop.

Bring me that pua! Epoisses, Pont
That makes my tongue sit up like a hard on;
that heady-home-grown, fungus-driven
   layers of spread.

Leave thy creamy blue and green
terroir
on my tongue,
thy
   miaw-meaux
Taleggio lover;

And I shall wash thy feet
with the
dry
crisp liquid
of my cask till my
 days’ end.



(Eric Aronson & Kyril Bonfiglioli's (2015) "Mordecai" (18s))

lundi 29 juin 2015

Mâlain Diaries 2

Mâlain Diaries 2


Why H &M? Why Aeropostale? Superdry, American Eagle or whatever it is today.
I don’t want to be a mass-produced, global
economy, stock-traded
widgetbeing.

I long for
pain traditionnel at a Boulangerie
   closed when you’re done work, and sometimes
   on Monday.
ancient maisons and floorboards where Molière, Voltaire, and Zola walked
   at 5’2” with no electricity.
carved balconies with sunset views over les montagnes
   no ascenseur for hauling groceries
    or my couch.
a quiet cappuccino in the piazza
  10 to sit”.

No £80 Abercrombie & Fitch for me.
No. Give me
$1 McDonald’s coffee; free seat,
elevator to the door
head room
light
inter-connected
   air
contact
shower-power
food that doesn’t lock its doors.

Bring forth thy hot-press heritage.


dimanche 28 juin 2015

Mâlain Diaries 1

Mâlain Diaries 1

“She could tell you were English,”
he said to me accusingly,
ashamed of the obvious linguistic heritage,
the slight of being too-much-oneself.
<<Projet Réstauration>>
was the bénévolat work of our visit.
Ruins being rebuilt; scraping and
uncovering what once was shiny and strong.

“They don’t understand you. If you need to say something, just
tell me and
I will translate for you.”
They uncover the foundation walls first.
Ancient, once new, ‘no-fear’ walls.
Hardened stone that could still be seen through
Covered mounds of grass, like a wound
trying to insulate itself,
building protective layers around the core,
stop the damage.

Then they uncover cellars, deep within
we didn’t even know were there.
“I don’t know why you pretend to be French when you’re not.”
he says, he means, “You disgust me.”
Small bits of pottery shards, little glittering metal and
blue painted bone that can only be seen
once softly brushed for hours.
Held fragile as it has become through
neglect-worn years.