Last Night I Dreamt I Was Paris

Last night I dreamt I was Paris. I dreamt I was that shining jewel of a city, indeed. Last night I was she, a body of stone, metal and bone. I was an ever sighing palace of earthly delights.

I dreamt I was that city, the Métro pumping blood like the main arteries, the cells each human, each animal stray, each insect, bringing me to life every single second of the oneiric fancy. Each step a sensuous caress, each word spoken mounting to a susurrous insinuation of lust that fell silken on my ears. Every corner and angle, each curving beam, each joining buttress, my corpus erogenous.

Though I cannot say I’ve ever been, I know what I know and I know what I’ve seen. Like turgid little appendages, the Barrière d’Enfer stood guard to the old wall of the Farmers-General, the senseless geography that last night was me made me dizzy with pleasure and knowing such glee. The lull of the evening as the darklings there feasted on women and men who had lost all that’s gifted. The rustling of rat-kin who steal and defile, my self-city underbelly seedy with style.

And the call of the old bones, the ossuary tunnels, within them the greatest of secret desires. More bones! More bones! More children defiled! More skin! More blood! More wood for the pyre!

Last night I did dream that Paris was I, and just like the sensuous city at night, I lived on the brink of the edge of forever, but never to see the white light of the fire that sings of the peace at the end of desire.

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