From : Kenza Sand
Object : Paris, Pan, Panic
Date : 1 sec.
To : Undisclosed Recipient

 

.FRENCH WHIM

{1000
FEUILLE}

The ways of Paris are a thousand threads, old strips of silk sewn up with rope, insanely. 

Allow her seams to fall apart, with a sense of pride and degeneration, flashing fits of lunacy in the eyes of the initiated, pleasured by the scene of her own confusion. 

Forever dressed up with nonchalance in the face of passers-by, she is not a mere host for bedrock dwellers. She deals with the frantic, the chic, the raggedy-doll tribes, the nomadic and the ecstatic, every one of them survivor of their own secrets. 

Some will be lovers and their maverick muse, and some will be the electricity, a diffuse form of being, sweeping in, hot springs of consciousness that flicker and flash.

À UN FOU / À LA TIENNE
LA DERNIÈRE / ET JUSTE LÀ
SALUT C'EST TOI

/ ON FÊTE UN ANNIVERSAIRE /

UN PREMIER SOIR /
POUR LA PREMIÈRE ÉTAIT UNE FOIS /

A thousand seconds in one, dim as vapor, coarse like salt, all senses taper off to a single string.

{1}

Moved. Mid-high in the sky. I am like my aircraft.

Spaced out, in an artless clarity of matter. We have been hovering below the center of the high. For how long ?

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot the strangest thing in the aisle, now level with my left eye : a hostess' hand it is, with a faint string of smoke snaking up from the translucent epidermis, like a thread freshly snatched off a sprite's tail, now dying in her palm. Or is it rising from the tiny bag of fries she is holding, as I am now figuring out ? A syllable slips my lip.

French fries frenzy. They go handpicked, just like that, Rose after Kelly, before Daisy, they go easy, they go unnumbered. Time is fried.

Dear Passengers, it's
El-Even A.lter M.eridiem
Landing Imm.a.nent

PANIC,
SYRUP
&
STRIP

Midnight,

Go out on the balcony. You can feel the whole building, inside and out. The streets, the rock, the light. The scent of singed cherry from the smoking bottle inside your room, at the exit of the day. The shape of the dark and a small breeze, on your charred strings — the chords of what I mean — Panic, Syrup and Strip. Parts of you mean Paris. Playing, whining, kissing, wining and dining itself, being Syrup, Pan or Panic.

There is no Paris, but a drift.

If that fever lasts, and your blood comes fuel and licorice, come at once.

Your sense of place loosened, you stretch and reach a desert they call garden between Concorde and Louvre. You walk across wrought-iron grills into the powder land with a numb feel, tread on the Tuileries ash white scene, the shape of a bottle of perfume. You call it Achroma Anaesthesia.

— Daytime. Pink light is dwelling. Blows away any thought.

Twin ponds radiate a long way apart, akin to your soul and mine.
Insomniac statues swoon over their isles, and they are the vice of Paris.

They shared millefeuilles and cigarettes, puff pastry petals layrered with puffs of smoke. I gave a try at their alchemy. I could nearly understand French at that point.

« Oh, I like reds. I like whites. And rosés taste like they passed out...

- Give me red for the craft,
white for the crash. »

" Oh, j'aime les rouges. J'aime les blancs. Et les rosés ont un goût d'évanouissement...

- Donne-moi du rouge pour l'artisanat,
le blanc pour l'accident. "

Let it stream between the teeth, just try and speak, Ss, Cs, Xs and Gs, and the shapes of lovewords you ate.

- Qu'est-ce que c'est ?...
- Gunpowder for the Dream.

{whim}

There was a racket outside last night, the nicest apocalypse soundtrack, strange as bedlam at the daemons' house.
It is getting back at me this morning, lush and loud, it is soaring no matter how cold my shower, no matter how hot that coffee. The sound of a carousel come off the tracks, and cracking horses, veering from daylight to night and backwards, warding off the whole wreckage in a jolt. Yesterday you could hear their flanks burst out to shards, blown off in turns : Noel and Daisy and Venus, the King's Coach and the Montgolfier, shedding enamelled skins to a cloud of sands...

Something I said at a forgettable time of the dawn.

Orpheus dices with Eurydice,
with øne eye.

.