My translation of Serge Gainsbourg's amazing song "le poinçonneur des Lilas" and why it is superior to that of Mick Harvey and Alan Chamberlain

            First of all I will present, with the guitar chords, the original french lyrics by Serge Gainsbourg. Then I will show Mick Harvey and Alan Chamberlain's version. After that I will present my arguments as to why their version does not do Serge Gainsbourg justice. At the end I will offer what I consider the definitive English version of the song, the one that I wrote.

le poinçonneur des Lilas

Em

J'suis l'poinçonneur des Lilas

                                           Am

Le gars qu'on croise et qu'on n' regarde pas

C                        G

Y a pas d'soleil sous la terre

               Am

Drôle de croisière

              B

Pour tuer l'ennui j'ai dans ma veste

Les extraits du Reader Digest

Em

Et dans c'bouquin y a écrit

                                      Am

Que des gars s'la coulent douce à Miami

C                            G

Pendant c'temps que je fais l'zouave

              Am

Au fond d'la cave

            B

Paraît qu'y a pas d'sous-métier

Moi j'fais des trous dans des billets

Em                                 Bm               Em

J'fais des trous, des p'tits trous, encor des p'tits trous

Em                                 Bm                 Em

Des p'tits trous, des p'tits trous, toujours des p'tits trous

Em                 Am

Des trous d'seconde classe

D                   G  B

Des trous d'première classe

Em                                 Bm              Em

J'fais des trous, des p'tits trous, encor des p'tits trous

Em                                 Bm                 Em

Des p'tits trous, des p'tits trous, toujours des p'tits trous

Bm         Em    Bm        Em

Des petits trous, des petits trous,

Bm        Em    Bm        Em

Des petits trous, des petits trous

Em

J'suis l'poinçonneur des Lilas

                           Am

Pour Invalides changer à Opéra

C                      G

Je vis au cœur d'la planète

             Am

J'ai dans la tête

         B  

Un carnaval de confettis

J'en amène jusque dans mon lit

Em

Et sous mon ciel de faïence

                                   Am

Je n'vois briller que les correspondances

C                   G

Parfois je rêve je divague

            Am

Je vois des vagues

           B

Et dans la brume au bout du quai

J'vois un bateau qui vient m'chercher

Em                      Bm            Em

Pour m'sortir de ce trou où je fais des trous

Em                                 Bm                 Em

Des p'tits trous, des p'tits trous, toujours des p'tits trous

Em              Am

Mais l'bateau se taille

D                G            B

Et j'vois qu'je déraille

Em                       Bm                Em

Et je reste dans mon trou à faire des p'tits trous

Em                                 Bm         Em

Des p'tits trous, des p'tits trous, toujours des p'tits trous

Bm         Em     Bm        Em

Des petits trous, des petits trous,

Bm        Em    Bm        Em

Des petits trous, des petits trous

Em

J'suis l'poinçonneur des Lilas

                               Am

Arts-et-Métiers direct par Levallois

C                      G

J'en ai marre j'en ai ma claque

         Am

De ce cloaque

               B

Je voudrais jouer la fill' de l'air

Laisser ma casquette au vestiaire

Em

Un jour viendra j'en suis sûr

                                Am

Où j'pourrais m'évader dans la nature

C                      G

J'partirai sur la grand'route

             Am

Et coûte que coûte

           B

Et si pour moi il n'est plus temps

Je partirai les pieds devant

Em                                 Bm       Em

J'fais des trous, des p'tits trous, encor des p'tits trous

Em                                 Bm         Em

Des p'tits trous, des p'tits trous, toujours des p'tits trous

Em                Am

Y a d'quoi d'venir dingue

D                 G           B

De quoi prendre un flingue

Em                             Bm              Em

S'faire un trou, un p'tit trou, un dernier p'tit trou

Em                           Bm              Em

Un p'tit trou, un p'tit trou, un dernier p'tit trou

Bm         Em      Bm      Em

Et on m'mettra dans un grand trou

Bm          Em        Bm     Em         Bm       Em

Où j'n'entendrai plus parler d'trou plus jamais d'trou

Bm        Em      Bm     Em      Bm    Em

De petits trous de petits trous de petits trous

The Ticket Puncher by Mick Harvey and Alan Chamberlain

I’m the ticket puncher at Lilas.

To me the passengers pay no regard.

There is no sunshine in this Metro station.

Strange vacation.

To kill the boredom, in my vest,

I have extracts from Readers Digest,

And this book says to me,

That life is just a ball in Miami,

All the while I’m working like a slave,

Down in this cave,

They say work’s better than the dole

But all day long I just make holes

I punch holes, little holes and more little holes

Little holes, little holes, always little holes

I make second class holes

And punch first class holes

I punch holes, little holes and more little holes

Little holes, little holes, always little holes

Little holes, little holes
Little holes, little holes.

I am the ticket puncher at Lilas

Invalids you change at Opera

I live down in the bowels of this here planet

I have in my head

A carnival of confetti that even gets between my sheets.

Under this white tile sky

The only things that shine are insect’s eyes.

Sometimes I dream, I go into a daze

And in that phase

The railway platform is a quay

A boat is coming to get me

From this hole, little hole where I make little holes

From this hole, this little hole where I make little holes

But the boat is sailing

My daydream’s always failing

In this hole, in this hole, punching little holes

Little holes, little holes, always little holes

Little holes, little holes
Little holes, little holes.

I am the ticket puncher at Lilas

Arts and Metiers direct by Lavallois

I’ve had enough,

I’ve had it with this bullshit

Down in this cess-pit

I’d like to get out in the trees

They can keep their cloakroom keys

One day will come I am sure

When I will get away to something more

Take a car, a plane, a train (something that rhymes with “what”)

No matter what

But if the time I have is cursed

I’ll have to leave this place feet first

I punch holes, little holes and more little holes

Little holes, little holes, always little holes

I think I will trifle

with a great big rifle

and make a hole, little hole, one last little hole

make a hole, little hole, one last little hole

and then they’ll put me in a hole

where I will hear no more of holes

Never again make little holes

Those little holes, those little holes.

   There are plenty of holes in the above version, and they're not the number of times the word "holes" is used. 

   First of all is the use of the word "Invalids" as if the narrator is trying to say that invalids must take a certain route on the Metro in Paris. "Invalides" is the real name of a subway station in Paris and yes Gainsbourg chose the name obviously because of its double meaning. But to simply say "Invalids" takes the subtlety away that is so important in many of Serge Gainsbourg's meanings.

   The second gaping hole in Harvey and Chamberlain's version is the omission of a translation of Gainsbourg's phrase: la grand'route. They ignored it and instead listed various means of transportation. I am almost certain that Gainsbourg's use of  la grand'route is a reference to August Stindberg's play La Grand'Route, which in the original Swedish is Stora landsvägen, and which in English is the Great Highway. In Strindberg's play, the Great Highway is the road that leads to the graveyard. The last verse of Gainsbourg's song is all about death, first referencing it symbolically and finally literally.

   The third problem is the use of the rhyme "I think I will trifle with a great big rifle". Ugh! I feel like throwing up every time I read or hear this rhyme. It's as if Dr. Seuss were translating Serge Gainsbourg. 

   Then there is the use of the word "rifle". I don't think that when Gainsbourg conceived of his poinçonneur putting a hole in his head that he envisioned him doing it with a rifle. First of all Gainsbourg himself liked handguns. Second of all the ticket puncher, since it's his job that is driving him to suicide, would want to kill himself at work. A rifle is an extremely impractical implement of suicide, especially if you are trying to carry it to work on the underground transit system.

   It amazes me that it took two people to write this flawed English version of a Serge Gainsbourg masterpiece. But then again, maybe it's not so amazing. My observation over the years is that in general, the more writers there are behind a song, the worse the song is. Case in point: most of Britney Spears' songs have four writers for each one.

  Finally, I heard that Mick Harvey left Nick Cave's Bad Seeds because of creative differences with Nick Cave. Judging from this effort I would say that the difference was that Nick Cave was creative and Mick Harvey wasn't.

   

   Here is my  version of le poinçonneur des Lilas. Let me know what you think.

The Ticket Puncher at Lilas Station

I am the ticket puncher at Lilas
The guy you pass but don’t quite ever see there
There is no sun underneath the ground, strange way to get around

To kill the boredom, in my vest
I keep the new Reader's Digest
And inside a writer’s telling me

That guys can lead a sweet life in Miami
While I work here just like an idiot

in this covered pit

They say there are no worthless roles,
but my job’s making

little

holes
I make holes, little holes, still more little holes

I make holes, little holes, always little holes
Holes for second class cars, holes for those first class cars.
I make holes, little holes, still more little holes
I make holes, little holes, always little holes
Little holes, little holes, little holes, little holes

I am the ticket puncher at Lilas,
For Invalides transfer at Opera
I live in the planet’s nucleus 

and there's a circus of confetti in my head
that follows me right home to bed.
And staring up at my ceramic sky

I see no stars, just cold fluorescent lights
Sometimes I dream and my mind wanders, to the the water
And through the mist just off the quay
I see a ship come to get me
To take me from this hole where I make little holes
little holes, little holes, always little holes

But the boat drifts on back to sea
And my mind flips on track to be
making holes, little holes still more little holes
Little holes, little holes, little holes, little holes
 

I am the ticket puncher at Lilas,
Arts et Metiers direct by Levallois

I am backed up, while lodged here toiling down this toilet.
I want to break this cage and fly,
just leave this monkey suit behind.
and the day will come, I am sure
When I will run into the arms of nature
I will embark on the Great Highway

whatever toll I’ll pay
And if for me the time’s run out
I will leave just leave here lying down
from this hole where I make holes, still more little holes

Little holes, little holes, always little holes
This job’s carried me round the bend
enough to put this gun to my head.

To make a hole, little hole, one last little hole,
little hole, little hole, one last little hole
And they’ll put me in a big hole.
where I’ll not hear or speak of holes. Last stop for holes!
Those little holes, little holes
little holes, little holes.

Peer to Peer Networking: the model for a more egalitarian democracy

 Equality of membership is a universal tenet of democracy. In Peer-to-peer networking (P2P) we find a model for the implementation of this principle. It inspires a sense of equality among millions of users, and thus has the potential to aid in transforming the political and economic structure of societies worldwide (Bauwens, 2005). It also helps its users to emerge from the sway of the large corporations that strive to monopolize the supply end of the online market. While P2P is sometimes accused of violating copyrights, it will be argued here that this is a surmountable issue, and that P2P can benefit creators, the online community, and also the global village.
   P2P started as networks of computers linked by cables in the workspaces of businesses, and expanded to interactions between millions connected by the internet. In order to be part of a P2P exchange each peer needs to use the same networking program, like FrostWire. Alternatively one can use a protocol, such as BitTorrent, which allows for file sharing among peers without each needing to download a program. Instead the peers download a file extension that allows them to access a single program to be used for both uploading and downloading at the same time. This process has spawned a miniature culture within the network which compels its members to be mindful of and outspoken about the need to reciprocate (Pouwelse,  Garbacki, Epema, Sips, 2009). The use of such programs and protocols could help to cultivate in us a better sense of responsibility towards one another as citizens (Uricchio, 2004).
   Questions arise though as to whether some forms of peer to peer networking are ethical because certain of them, such as The Pirate Bay, offer without charge the intellectual property of artists or software designers. While creative output should always be the property of the individuals who created it, it should however not be a commodity that corporations can acquire and market. Creators should of course be compensated for their work, but it can be argued that such exposure as that provided by file sharing sites is free advertising that indirectly generates capital (Coelho, 2009). But if intellectual property owners require direct payment, they could be compensated through advertising revenue in the same manner that artists are remunerated by the radio and television industries.
   P2P has inspired political movements such as the P2P Foundation and the Pirate Party.
   The basic principle of the P2P Foundation is that if every home worldwide had a computer with an internet connection, everyone could potentially communicate and share files with everyone else. Such a scenario could inspire every member of the population with the sense of equal membership (Bauwens, 2005).
  P2P networking could be a powerful tool for the advancement and maintenance of democracy. It is also an equalizing element that can potentially emancipate users from their dependence upon the one-sided and often expensive server to client based downloading monopoly. The spirit of democracy is alive and well online in the use of Peer-to-peer networking.

Citations:


Bauwens, M. 2007. P2P politics, the state, and the renewal of the emancipatory traditions. Re-public. URL: http://www.re-public.gr/en/?p=133
Bauwens, M. 2005. Manifesto: Peer to Peer and Human Evolution.  Wiki Commons. URL: http://p2pfoundation.net/Manifesto
Coelho, P. 2009. Paul Coelho’s Blog. From Pirate Coelho Central.                            URL : http://paulocoelhoblog.com/2009/04/13/from-pirate-coelho-central/
Pouwelse, J., P. Garbacki, D. Epema, H. Sips. 2008. Pirates and Samaritans: A decade of measurements on peer production and their implications for net neutrality and copyright. Telecommunications Policy Journal, 32(11): 701-712
Uricchio, W. 2004. Beyond the Great Divide: collaborative networks and the challenge to dominant conceptions of creative industries. The International Journal of Cultural Studies, 7(1): 79-90.

I was banned from the Art Bar Reading Series just for telling the host to go fuck himself?

This is how I got the news that I've been banned from the Art Bar Reading Series. Nobody had the guts to even call me after my history with the place. A history which, by the way, is longer than that of most members of the Art Bar Committee.

Stephen Humphrey wrote:

   “The issue of whether you can use a guitar to recite poems is a moot point from the moment you dropped the F-bomb on one of our hosts. Rudy told the rest of us you swore at him and your account confirms this.
    Whether or not singing songs should be part of the Art Bar open stage is open to debate and personally I can accept a reasoned critique of Art Bar open stage rules as fair comment, but verbal abuse of Art Bar team members is not acceptable.
   Yelling "Go fuck yourself" is not the language of debate and I don't see how it serves poetry.
   There's no point arguing that "fuck yourself" and other profane expressions are part of poetry. You weren't reciting Ginsbberg's "Howl". You were using words to intimidate someone volunteering his time to run a reading series.
    You weren't defending personal experssion. You were acting belligerently and spreading ugly vibes.
    What this is leading up to, Christian, is you're out of the computer. We don't want you at the Art Bar Open Stage.
    Consider this official notice. You're permanently off the list.
   However, it sounds like you won't be around the Art Bar anyway, since no public apology is forthcoming.
   I'm regret that it's come to this. You did a lot of good for the local lit scene in the 90s, but with your current attitude is doing no good, least of all to poetry.
    Whatever is going on I hope you work it out, but you can't do it in public at the Art Bar. That's not fair to anyone.
    And that, I'm afraid, is that.”

My Response:

   I told Rudy to go fuck himself after he effectively called me an asshole by implying that I was deliberately breaking the rules. I have never seen a host in all of Art Bar Reading series history get up and single an open stager out like that. He was clearly in the wrong. If a person does something positive and gets singled out through the power of microphone as an example of something negative, that person should be allowed a "go fuck yourself". It was certainly not an attempt to intimidate Rudy as you claim. It was an act of self defence. The only reason me saying "go fuck yourself" to Rudy sounded ugly was because since the audience has never seen a poet get up and play guitar at the Art Bar Reading Series, as far as they knew Rudy was actually quoting real rules by saying "Don't anyone come here and do what he did." If people in the audience knew otherwise they would have been more sympathetic to a "fuck you" in response to Rudy's narrow mindedness.
    I would argue that what I did was not verbally abusive. I swore at him. Verbal abuse is a verbal attack on a person for the purpose of hurting them. I reacted to being handed a shit sandwich.
    Interesting that I didn't cry and decide to ban the fifty or so people who swore at me over the years that I hosted the Orgasmic Alphabet Orgy. Sounds like you guys are taking yourselves way too seriously if being sworn at is an issue.
    I don't know what you mean by my "current attitude". I have not changed my willingness to stand up for what I believe in. If anything I've toned the way I express protest down in recent years. If I'd been holding a beer in the 90s and someone like Rudy had handed me that kind of bullshit they would have been wearing it, and deservedly so. What has certainly changed is the Art Bar Reading Series. There was never any reason to tell either Alan Briesmaster or Pierre L'Abbe to go fuck themselves. They never mistreated open stagers, and I would bet you that if I had said it to them they would not have been so petty as to ban me.
    Frankly, I am shocked by the committee's small mindedness about this. Holy crap! Banning someone over something like this? Was this unanimous?
    I would suggest this is not about the swearing at all, but rather a simple way for you guys to get rid of the problem of someone criticizing the Art Bar Reading Series. You guys had a weird reaction to that review I wrote last year and pretended the issue was that it wasn't a poem. But really if I'd gotten up and read a three minute long essay on bees I don't think there would have been any complaints.
    You guys should really take a good long look at yourselves as a collective. You know damn well that nobody else on the committee has as conservative an interpretation of poetry as Rudy does. I hope you are awake to this and the injustice that is done to poetry by allowing him to make the type of declaration that he made last Tuesday. Okay, so you guys have banned me. You are morons for making such a decision, but you've made it. Don't go to sleep on this. If Rudy is not going to apologize to me he should at least apologize to the audience the next time he hosts for his misrepresentation of the rules. He told me that he turned away two people with guitars that night when they asked if they could perform. The three minute time limit will turn away most poet songwriters anyway. He should also apologize to Alan Briesmaster and Pierre L'Abbe for implying that they showed an impure definition of a "poetry only" series.
    I urge you to let something positive come out of all this. Don't let Rudy turn poets away just because they express their poetry in song form.

Oh How the Art Bar Reading Series has Fallen!

   I just had a very bad experience at the Art Bar Reading Series.
   On the night of September 6 I went there with my guitar like I have many times. Like I did at least fifty times on the open stage before I was invited to do a feature fifteen years ago. In this case I was doing it for the first time in a year because I ride a bike and it's a hassle to carry a guitar to poetry readings except on special occasions.
   The special occasion on this night was that I was not going to be back for a while since I was starting school again next week and so I announced on the open stage that I was going to finish my visits with a song. I did a three minute presentation of a poem in song form.
   Afterwards the host for this night, Rudy Fearon is his name, came up to the mike and said basically "I want to make it clear that we don't want people to come with guitars and play on the open stage like Christian just did."
   I said "You don't think song lyrics are poetry?"
   He didn't quite answer my question, but rather reaffirmed that what I did was "against the rules" and that it I have a tendency to break the rules and that such behaviour was not welcome.
   I felt both insulted for myself and on behalf of poetry, which before the printing press was mostly all sung. I responded by saying "Go fuck yourself!"
   He made some threat about barring me from the Art Bar Reading Series.
   I have seen features even recently bring musical instruments into their performance. Robert Priest usually brings his guitar and does at least one song. Plenty of people sing acapela on the open stage, Aton Crouton has brought a track to rap to, and Allen Sutterfield, the founder of the Art Bar Reading Series performed with musical accompaniment a few months ago when he featured there. As I said before, I used to bring my guitar every week when the Art Bar Reading Series was at Csardas and the Imperial Pub. I got the opposite of complaints from the hosts about it, and when I was invited to do a feature by Pierre Labbé I'm sure he knew I would bring my guitar that night as well. The night of my feature I performed one fifteen minute song and one five minute song with my guitar. I was also accompanied by my band-mate Brian Haddon on the recorder.
   Have the rules changed? Are there even clear cut rules about this? I'm confused.
   If everyone in charge is in agreement that guitars are not welcome then I can simply accept that I don't want to be around such a restrictive definition of poetry imposed on people who perform for free.
   If on the other hand this is just about Rudy, and he's misrepresented the rules, then I need to get a public apology from him, into the microphone. Because really, the audience also needs an apology for this.

Instructions for Electroshock Therapy

Plug the Female end of the cord into the place where it’s meant to go,
Plug the Male end into any, any, any old electric hole.
Now flick the switch,
the light is green,
we need to wait now to warm up the machine
we’re wearing white and we’re feeling clean
for shock therapy!
We strap their legs and their arms
for shock therapy!
They can’t do any harm without their memory!
Shock therapy!
And if you think someone’s insane
why don’t you drive some lightning through their brain?
They won’t remember who to blame
for shock therapy!

Undress the patient and then lay them down just like a sacrifice.
To avoid any bruises let no metal touch the skin,
that’s my advice.
Now take a razor and shave the hair
around the temples, then rub electrode-jelly there,
put some on the electrodes and we’re soon prepared
for shock therapy!
Under fluorescent glow!
Shock therapy!
You know their flesh looks so cold under that canopy
for Shock therapy!
We dance some sparks through twisted wires
and randomly black out the stars.
Best of all it doesn’t leave any scars.
Shock therapy!

Insert and fasten the mouthpiece so the patient won’t bite their tongue,
slip a pillow underneath the back to reduce the spinal motion,
now turn the shock-power-switch on
and rotate the dial to choose the voltage you want,
to serve another cold meal in the restaurant
of Shock therapy!
Let’s fry some frontal lobes with shock therapy!
Add some gelled electrodes to the recipe
of shock therapy!
But if you want to make it work
use a tight rubber belt to hold those spastic jerks.
Let’s burn up the temples and raise the church
of shock therapy!

Keep in mind that every patient has a different convulsive threshold,
so start at three-tenths of a second at ten or twenty volts.
But the voltage on the screen
is not the voltage in the human being,
so let’s meditate upon the golden mean
of shock therapy:

Multiply the patient’s current by the machine’s resistance,
then subtract from the meter voltage.
Is all of this making sense?
Now push the start-shock button on,
and keep your finger there until the shock is done,
secure the jaw and force the shoulders down
for shock therapy!

We’re looking for the threshold
in shock therapy,
but if convulsive codes have not been breached
in shock therapy,
either the threshold has not been found,
or a delayed attack is coming around
in ten to twenty seconds on the killing ground
of shock therapy!

If unconsciousness follows the charge a delayed attack will come,
but if you’re looking for a grande mal seizure, just raise the voltage some.
Two-hundred and fifty volts
at point-one seconds could deliver some jolt,
so it helps us to remember it’s the patient’s fault
in shock therapy!
to get a grande mal seizure,
shock therapy,
you know it couldn’t be easier, get one right away.
Shock therapy!
Just two-hundred volts
at point-fifteen seconds makes them shake like jello,
though for the rest of their lives they will be walking slow
from shock therapy!

For details on injections of amytal and other drugs,
just in case you want to reduce the violence of these convulsions,
refer to current literature,
so now we’ll open our books to page thirty-four
as we all join together now to sing a prayer
to shock therapy!

Dashine

The streetcar is dragging my dead heart home from a minor romantic defeat.
I was standing along with a nervous line,
legs anticipating a seat,
when in front of the firing squad of my eyes
walked a beautiful African girl.
My eyes bounced to and away from her
while my lips tried to jump-start a smile.
Then suddenly and so effortlessly
she poured me a long, sweet smiling drink,
and suddenly I had the ability
to smile back at her, though it was weak.

But what I should’ve done is said,
“Don’t smile at me
unless you wanna have sex with me!
Don't bend that lovely bow to use my heart for target practice.
Don't smile at me unless you wanna have sex with me!
Don’t make my hormones go and then tell me you’re just an actress!
Don’t smile at me unless you wanna have sex with me.

I was far too shy to approach her there,
but I swore that I’d talk with her soon.
I would sit by her side when the streetcar arrived
and I’d start with a “Hi, how are you?”,
So I went to get gum at the Garfields
to chew it and mask my bad breath
in breathless preparation for
a moment bringing rebirth or death.

The man at the counter asked how I’d been.
I told him that I’d been okay.
He said, “Is that why you look so cheerful then?”
and I asked, “What did you say?”
When I picked up his friendly sarcasm I was about to justify
why I don’t smile, when I suddenly saw that the streetcar’d already arrived.

The girl with the smile was just ahead in line
but somehow some other man
had me beat for that sweet seat beside her,
though without any romantic plan.
I was about to turn around to sit just ahead and across the aisle,
when she pulled that red bow of her mouth once more
and unwrapped me another smile.

So I thought, “She must really have liked me
to smile sweetly two times in a row,
so I was determined to talk with her shortly
or else I might not ever know.
I decided to ride until she got off,
to catch up and then talk with her then,
so I stayed in my seat and I missed my stop
because I might not see her again.

As the streetcar came closer to Parkdale
I was ready to spring for the door,
but my matching that place with her sweet chocolate face,
was it racist or merely a bore.
At Spadina I expected this angel
to descend into some trendy hell,
but if tempted, she didn’t show it,
her hand never reached for the bell.
At University all of the Shriners
who’d gotten on at the Motel strip
stumbled drunkenly out into their parade,
but she still continued to sit.
When Yonge street came she got off the car.
Would she go into the Hudson’s Bay?
“Oh, Goddamnit no!”, I had to pay again
just to follow her on the subway.

I followed her, fifteen bodies behind
and caught up with her on the platform.
“Hi”, I said, with relief in my voice
and she gave a “Hi” in return.
I told her she was very beautiful.
“Thanks”, she said, kind of indifferently.

“What’s your name?”, I asked, and she said, “Dashine.”,
showing pride that her name was unique.
“I’m Christian”, I told her, with even more pride.
She said, “Hi”, one more time to my name,
then I said, “Hi”, in response to her “Hi”,
just to balance that stale greeting game.

“Do you work out in the west end?”, I asked.
She said, “No, that’s where I live.”
“and where are you headed for now?”, I asked.
She told me, “I’m meeting a friend.”
“Oh ya”, I said, for the sake of response,
as the train slid up, packed end to end.
“Oh, shit!”, she said in response to the crowd,
but we managed to squeeze our way in.
As the train jerked itself into motion, I asked, “Do you go to school, or do you work?”.
“I work”, she said, and she seemed annoyed,
asking, “What are all of these questions for?”
“Oh!... I... ah... oh... I’m sorry!”, I said.
She told me that it was okay.
“I need to ask questions to talk”, I said.
She said, “I’ve had a trying day”.
“Do you always smile as sweetly as that
when you’ve had a trying day?”, I asked.
She rolled her eyes in response to that
like she was taking both of those smiles back
on a web running back to her spidery guts
which had spewed them out with so much art.
Now both of those smiles she had given me
left a sour aftertaste in my heart.

I hung nervously from the overhead bar
while the cookie that is my poor heart
was crumbled in the grip of the moment
and it fell to the floor of the car.
I tossed her a couple of whimpering smiles
without daring to look in her eyes,
but the limp smiles that she handed back to me
were just anorexic “Good-byes.
At Wellesley Station she got off the train.
I followed, but got washed far behind
by the counterflow of the passenger flesh
descending to get on the line.
I tried to intercept her
by ascending a clearer stairway,
to explain why I’d taken such trouble,
but by now she was too far away.

But I should’ve found some way to tell her.
I should’ve climbed on a transfer dispenser and shouted.
I should’ve hijacked the fucking public address system and screamed this message out to every post pubescent girl and every woman there with their chromosomal licenses to tease:
“Don’t smile at me unless you wanna have sex with me!
Don’t bend that crimson bow to use my heart for target practice!
Don’t smile at me unless you wanna have sex with me!
Don’t make my hormones go and then tell me you’re just an actress!
Don’t smile at me
unless you wanna have sex with me.

Hello?

My penis
is the hot-line
to the red phone
in the White House
of my heart,

and my penis is always ringing,
but whenever I pick it up
there’s never
anyone
at
the other
end.