Prose by John Holten

17.
So

18.
trust me when I say it is all Maries or Maris, Saras or Sarahs/ i’m not going to divulge anything superfluous, this is my lyric age, short may it last/ and these are the facts/ the notches inscribed on my bubbling self/ fading in and out between the space of the names of girls I never loved

19.
I am waiting for someone whom I have never met before. By the Canal Saint Martin, the entrance to the metro. A clodo comes along and sits down next to where I stand, having brought some magazines to add to his cardboard nest. He drinks chestnut coloured liquid from a glass bottle and smokes a filter cigarette. One of his shoes is half off his gray foot. Three young people come along, rollicking through the turnstiles and say a big good evening to him, offer him pastis from a plastic water bottle: one sits down cross legged, earnest in her jest.
I, waiting listlessly by now, throw my regard over them. They are Bakunin’s kids, as much as he has any these days: punks perhaps. One stands aside, a tall girl in long shorts and a hoodie. I see she is pretty and our eyes meet. After a time she comes towards me where I lean against a telephone, offering me up the end of her cigarette. I explain I have lots of tobacco, but ask her what they are up to for the night. A party somewhere. She asks me where I’m from. She is a printer. Agrees that work is but work. She compliments my French. I say she is too nice.
Then she demands that I look her in the eyes. She is very pretty: I can’t help regret the oversized clothes, the layers of grunge hiding her. I ask why. She says I have beautiful eyes and I laugh at her, into her face, into her eyes. She is drunk  so they are soft and open. I explain I would like to join them but already have plans, am waiting for someone (who in the end never shows). She says its ok she has a boyfriend, <<I love him, bla-bla>>. I say I meant only to party together. She smiles some more. Compliments me on my French again. I tell her she is too nice. Her friends finish their chat with the clodo and they all move off over the bridge.
Look at me in the eyes. You have beautiful eyes. You are too nice. I love him, bla-bla.
Friday night.

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