gathering his remaining men
‘To arms!’
   cries Lautréamont
‘Salut, salut’,
   they drink their brandy
and dream of
   malodorous King Louis.
All of France is none of France –
  captured by English pen.
Hang from the skies
   o lord of Mediterranean summers.
The ink will flow on.


One thought on “Pride

  1. I’m in the middle of moving house so I’ve pulled this from the archives, a.k.a. a notebook from 2005 that I’m about to throw away. Poetry about Lautréamont is très gauche, but 20-year-old Sally was all about the weird Francophilia.

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