A little over a year ago, my friends and I took to holidaying in the Alps with a the intention of snowboarding. I didn't do so much of the snowboarding, myself, but I had lived and begun a slow descent into madness.
This is my experience of France...
I am on a dark coach
(it is night)
full of people I don’t
know
and I have just taken a
small dose of cocaine.
I am feeling an expanding
in my throat
like a large, hollow,
bubble
blocking my oesophagus.
There is a numbness in
the top of my nose
and in the back of my
mouth.
It is uncomfortable
and I feel warm.
*
The club was full of
dancing carcasses,
attempting,
some succeeding,
at sloppy sexual
interaction.
Heavy breathing,
laden with the husk of
liquor,
filled the air
and was sickly to
breathe.
*
My days have taken a turn
like those of the writers
I choose to discover.
Namely, I have travelled
and now have little
money.
Our days are filled with
relatively unimportant banter;
(perhaps I’ll try and
sway that)
and drinking,
smoking cigarettes and
other narcotics.
Due to my current lack of
finances,
I’ve taken my first day
to exploring the town alone,
and cleaning.
It gives me time to
write, however,
and it seems I should
make myself of some use
rather than a burden.
*
There is a heavy fog on
the town as we leave
(Andrew accompanies me)
and we head for the
shops.
Dogs fought
playfully in the streets.
We thought
the place could have been
a peaceful village once.
Before the students came,
Andrew remarked.
I couldn’t help feeling
anger
on the indigenous
French’s behalf.
*
The mist rose
and the snow that dropped
literally sparkled
in the, now high, sun.
I put a cigarette to my
cold lips
and my frozen skin
cracked
as I pulled it away.
I had left a
pretty pink stain
of blood on the end.
*
I have been living freely
and giving freely, also.
I take what I can,
when I can
and eat in a similar
pattern.
What little I have
I am generous to offer
as those around, offer
me.
I have been fortunate
enough
to be blessed with a
gratuitous amount
of alcohol around me.
My days,
hungry and raw,
cracked lips and cut
hands,
have been hazy
and I often awake still
drunk.
Though we lack many home
comforts
(I sleep in a small,
bunk-bed
in a hallway with two
sheets, only)
we are alive
and we are happy.
We have fun and explore
the town
and our limits.
I was tasered yesterday.
We all were.
This is how we survive.
*
I can't help but feel
as I walk around,
that many of the
inhabitants look at me.
They stare at me,
their gaze is not one
that shows a welcome-ness.
Perhaps it’s just myself,
I am putting my attitudes
upon them,
making their looks seem
as such
when it’s not the case.
I walked a while,
hoping to see more of the
beautiful snow;
mountains,
sky,
people.
I wanted to see more of
France,
but this is not France,
it is England,
Germany,
Sweden,
et cetera.
It is industry.
I feel it is a shame
that something so
precious,
so natural and
unrelenting,
as it is here,
is turned so shamelessly
into profit.
If all the people wish to
spit at us,
perhaps we should allow
them that much.
*
The past few days have
become a blur.
Lack of sleep and food
deprivation,
no doubt coupled with
drugs,
has left me with paranoid
delusions.
I couldn’t sleep last
night
and lost all sense of
bodily perception
and perspective
within my bed.
I was haunted with
hallucinations of people
until I shouted,
aware suddenly of my
solitude.
*
I have been feeling light
headed,
constantly as if in
a very lucid dream.
My body buzzes and
twitches;
cold,
cut and beaten.
I feel restless and
unaware of
any desires.
confused.
*
