An Aubrey Beardsley designed France Télécom phonebox
Roof collapsed & nettled with cobwebs
We couldn’t find you again Guillaume
It rained so heavy
Last night I dreamt of killer monkeys with clowns’ noses
Francis Picabia, Cendrars, Picasso
Playing poker on your tombstone
But found instead this Modernist Needle
And Jacqueline alongside you
(you should see Barry’s b-sides, they’re right up there)
We put a crapaud in your croci
Then went to find Jim
You can take a taxi to any tomb you want to see
Just say Avenue Circulaire or Number 63
It is only a baker’s dozen to your centenary
The girl who loved poetry on the train at Nice in 1915
Who wasn’t sure, but thought she might have heard your name
Now everyone knows who you are
You are going nowhere
Guillaume I too found love,
She makes a slip of the tongue, says “smile” instead of “stone”
Then showed surprise that a cemetery should have a W.C.
The living still need to go, some dead choose not to
We kissed at Colette & thought so much more at Abelard
Even here, men look down her blouse
Like Mummy might be lost there
Guillaume, it is only September & already on St Germain
The windows show silver mannequins in winter wear
Conkers fall on stone like wooden knobs on bank doors
I want a tap on mine to keep me topped up
Such sweet tight release of a rosé cork
Cut a picture of the lost lovers in the death bibliothèque
But when she went to smell the drains again
I sat with two glasses & looked destitute
She knew where I was by virtue of Balzac’s bust
I smiled as she strode back along the stones
Three wild cats passed along her path
There was no misfortune in that
As we waited for the grave of Jim to clear
A policeman shouted “non alcools”
And marched us upright to the gates
And I’ve just turned twenty-eight
Next year we are coming to live here
And together give out guided tours
Starting “each man kills the thing he loves”
(before you let rip you have to reign them in)
Charged at three euros a head or a bottle of vin

11 September 2005

Copyright © Chris McCabe, 2007.

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Chris McCabe, originally from Liverpool, now works at the Poetry Library in London's South Bank Centre. His first collection, The Hutton Report, was published by Salt in 2005.