Les Rêveries Réelles
by Amit Parmessur
I see myself sucking on an erect Marlboro
backstage and letting the smoke make
slow love with my green tongue while
crowds of eager fans queue up for my
rock concert outside the Verona Arena.
I feel myself at a Sufi shrine, in seiza,
swallowing some desi liquor and letting
it turn my veins into violent blue whips
while I hum a qawwali with a harmonium
ready to go wild and mild for hours.
I touch myself, drunk, digging into two
juicy oysters from Zdenek’s Oyster Bar
and sipping their elixir from a silver
chalice in a magical cavern in Prague,
dancing and rejoicing à la bohémienne,
while climbing and caressing virgin
mountains in Mark Twain’s paradise
and letting them bruise my belly
like hell in a loudly silent sega, till
yellow morning and all is really absurd.
In my daydreams, I wish to charm
that one hypnotizing mermaid from
anywhere in the world into the waterfall,
the forest, and the mist of my lustful heart.
I wish to be sucked into that virgin
oyster and be a saint
again and again
and let myself rape the smoke,
here, elsewhere, everywhere, repeating
a human being not being human,
until I hear a threnody and my white beard
oscillates and falls on a cracked window sill
in Paris with les rêveries réelles written
on a piece of paper lost in my pocket.