Standing on a French Strasse, hiccuping, watching the French be French, feeling insecure.
The Seine has burst her banks, the tourist seats swamped, the boulevarde of Romance overflowing with an effluent tide.
Dog shit on the streets, spit on the back, paying to enter Notre Dame.
Back home my kids are waking and I feel a drunken urge to call them and tell them how good things are, in the Northern Hemisphere, how the toilets really do flush backwards, the women are so beautiful, the men so romantic.
But it really isn’t safe to even think about the coons who angrily stalk the Metro, with their brilliant belt buckles, stoned eyes, dead stare, as another pretty White girl wanders past with her negro, my heir.
All the buses blast a black stained exhaust which stains the orient facing wall, with her statues, silent and covered in….black.
Here is the home where the people held out until the city faced with ruin, collapsed, to save the town and her history.
Over the border, the other ones have been blasted until they can barely breed enough to fuel her own desires, let alone enough to sustain her real history.
Yet they did, bombed out, they built. Here, not bombed out they have slunk into decrepitude.