Don't talk to me of love. I've had an earful And I get tearful when I've downed a drink or two. I am one of your talking wounded. I am a hostage. I am maroonded. But I am in Paris with you.

Yes, I am angry at the way I've been bamboozled And resentful at the mess that I've been through. I admit I am on the rebound And I don't care where are we bound.
I am in Paris with you.

Do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre, If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame If we skip the champs Elysees And remain here in this sleazy Old hotel room Doing this or that To what and whom Learning who you are, Learning what I am.

Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris, The little bit of Paris in our view. There's that crack across the ceiling And the hotel walls are peeling And I am in Paris with you.

Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris. I am in Paris with the slightest thing you do. I am in Paris with your eyes, your mouth, I am in Paris with all points south. Am I embarrassing you? I am in Paris with you.

Came on the Poetry List. Good poem.

I so liked Spring last year Because you were here; -- The thrushes too -- Because it was these you so liked to hear -- I so liked you.

This year's a different thing, -- I'll not think of you. But I'll like Spring because it is simply Spring As the thrushes do.

Came on the Minstrels list.

Schizophrenic, wrenched by two styles, one a hack's hired prose, I earn my exile. I trudge this sickle, moonlit beach for miles,

tan, burn to slough off this live of ocean that's self-love.

To change your language you must change your life.

I cannot right old wrongs. Waves tire of horizon and return. Gulls screech with rusty tongues

Above the beached, rotting pirogues, they were a venomous beaked cloud at Charlotteville.

Once I thought love of country was enough, now, even if I chose, there is no room at the trough.

I watch the best minds rot like dogs for scraps of flavour. I am nearing middle age, burnt skin peels from my hand like paper, onion-thin, like Peer Gynt's riddle.

At heart there is nothing, not the dread of death. I know too many dead. They're all familiar, all in character,

even how they died. On fire, the flesh no longer fears that furnace mouth of earth,

that kiln or ashpit of the sun, nor this clouding, unclouding sickle moon withering this beach again like a blank page.

All its indifference is a different rage.