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Mon Plaisir Démodé*
(In the time of Covid-19)
Les amoureux on distant banks of river Seine
Can’t feel my pain
For I’m locked in, locked down,
Alone
Can’t cuddle, skin-to-skin, can’t touch
A face, a hand, another’s hips or lips
The sticky vernix of the just-born child
Soon after cleansed to silken sheen,
Unblemished derm,
The tiny talc-ēd fist,
The trusting thrust of two-year-old’s soft hand,
The tickle of my tootsie bear’s big toe,
The malodorously sweaty adolescent feet,
The pedal pong of the perspiring athlete,
The interlocking huddle of the rugger scrum,
The undulating rivulets of elderly’s raised veins,
The gnarled, white cliffs of chalky warts,
The calloused lumps and bumps of age
All these my separated-self has missed
Keyboard contact,
Alphabetical tap,
Much digital endeavour,
Exercise on ivories now faded,
Arpeggios and scales … I’m jaded
Synesthetic flashes of the Chopin waltz
Of once-togetherness-in-unison-of-step
Won’t compensate, won’t assuage that ache,
That longing for the lasso
Of another’s hand around my neck, my waist,
The tenderness or friendliness of
The Latin-American embrace,
Les trois bisous** X X X so Swiss,
The Brexiteer’s cursory hand-shake
All these my separated-self has missed
Thinking about the touch and wanting it
Is almost like a sin
That need to smooth, to squeeze, to pat,
Console, commend, ignite,
To feel my lover’s breath upon my neck,
His nearby whiff of after-shaving cream,
The invitation of his razored chin
To melt into his arms,
To cuddle front to back, to curve, spiral, to spoon,
To stroke the other’s cheek, to kiss
All these my separated-self has missed
Instead I circle round my room
My eyes half-closed,
Dominant right hand with heuristic hush,
Not miming Adam and Creator’s indexed
Near brush,
Groping, stretching towards the left until
I find and fondle wingēd humerus,
My scything scapula,
My stretch of serpentining clavicle caress
Any bone will do
As I drown toute seule*** in my Aznavourian,
Old-fashioned way
- - -
* French for My Old Fashioned Pleasure
** French for three kisses
*** French for all alone
With thanks to Charles Aznavour’s Les Plaisirs Démodés (Old Fashioned Pleasures) or The Old Fashioned Way (title of the song in English)
(In the time of Covid-19)
Les amoureux on distant banks of river Seine
Can’t feel my pain
For I’m locked in, locked down,
Alone
Can’t cuddle, skin-to-skin, can’t touch
A face, a hand, another’s hips or lips
The sticky vernix of the just-born child
Soon after cleansed to silken sheen,
Unblemished derm,
The tiny talc-ēd fist,
The trusting thrust of two-year-old’s soft hand,
The tickle of my tootsie bear’s big toe,
The malodorously sweaty adolescent feet,
The pedal pong of the perspiring athlete,
The interlocking huddle of the rugger scrum,
The undulating rivulets of elderly’s raised veins,
The gnarled, white cliffs of chalky warts,
The calloused lumps and bumps of age
All these my separated-self has missed
Keyboard contact,
Alphabetical tap,
Much digital endeavour,
Exercise on ivories now faded,
Arpeggios and scales … I’m jaded
Synesthetic flashes of the Chopin waltz
Of once-togetherness-in-unison-of-step
Won’t compensate, won’t assuage that ache,
That longing for the lasso
Of another’s hand around my neck, my waist,
The tenderness or friendliness of
The Latin-American embrace,
Les trois bisous** X X X so Swiss,
The Brexiteer’s cursory hand-shake
All these my separated-self has missed
Thinking about the touch and wanting it
Is almost like a sin
That need to smooth, to squeeze, to pat,
Console, commend, ignite,
To feel my lover’s breath upon my neck,
His nearby whiff of after-shaving cream,
The invitation of his razored chin
To melt into his arms,
To cuddle front to back, to curve, spiral, to spoon,
To stroke the other’s cheek, to kiss
All these my separated-self has missed
Instead I circle round my room
My eyes half-closed,
Dominant right hand with heuristic hush,
Not miming Adam and Creator’s indexed
Near brush,
Groping, stretching towards the left until
I find and fondle wingēd humerus,
My scything scapula,
My stretch of serpentining clavicle caress
Any bone will do
As I drown toute seule*** in my Aznavourian,
Old-fashioned way
- - -
* French for My Old Fashioned Pleasure
** French for three kisses
*** French for all alone
With thanks to Charles Aznavour’s Les Plaisirs Démodés (Old Fashioned Pleasures) or The Old Fashioned Way (title of the song in English)