The Body Decides On A Holiday

The skin - under the hairs all scabs and spots - cries for a cleanse in a Turkish Bath. But, the prospect plain scares the crap out from the arse.

The gut demands a seat in a pub, the table piled up with booze and grub. But - warns each fat, lumbering part - for that we may just not have the heart.

The tongue untwists to suggest Amsterdam: lick me with the love of whores, find some padded room to smoke and shroom, to open perception's (at least pleasure's) doors. There is a protest from the wallet, and a wheeze from the lung. A sense of a stereotype and empty hype, and there in the damaged brain, a battered half-memory cries of past pain. No, it will not be done.

The feet insist, no matter what else, the arse finds a seat. The request is answered with a fart, and one knock from the knees makes the No complete.

The left fist, luxuriating in a dark pocket all day, like a teenage mood behind a bedroom curtain, le Fist Francais, has this to say: "paint my nails in purple, sprinkle glitter upon each knuckle, and sweep me off to gay Paris! Hear its bells call dingalingling! There I shall shimmer and there I shall sing! In that world of beauty outside of time, of Paris I shall be, and Paris shall be mine!"

Somehow he manages to resist. Although there in the eyes, a hint of mist.

And I, Fist, find little to say. Just this: "A forest is a city of wood, a beach a city of sand, and Paris sewers aren't so pretty. Do what you feel that you should, but your shoulders shan't shrug off the city." And so Fist, ready, waits, there in the hand.