“My God, you’re beautiful!”
For three days and three night he served up the most exquisite versions of his prick and national juices. My God how beautiful you are! He opens her up and closes her again. He gets lost in her hair from here, climbs onto her knees to admire her big eyes and My God how beautiful you are! He shows her the seven hundred and twelve scars on his big herniated balls from fighting the rebels and from the war against the tsarists. He lifts her up onto his shoulders and sets off into the streets, singing her local songs and the national anthem. He also sings the Marseillaise and La brabançonne, songs from my childhood. He runs off the list of nicknames the kids have given his hernia: Alpine Sea Holly, National Almond, Louise the Fat One, National Anselmo, Little Eggplant, Stinky Blue Goulande, She-National…. He tells her how they killed his national parrot because he kept repeating the code name for a secret plot against me. He declared for everyone to hear that I’m giving myself over to you body and hernia. You’re beautiful, white hot, you will move to my country and you will be matriarch of the nation. But how can I reveal my heart to you, all my heart in just one word? And they head off down the street, with her up on his shoulders, him walking and singing the Marseillaise and our songs from back home. Paris, ah Paris. Down the avenue Foch, then the Champs-Elysées, past the Clemenceau metro station, over to the Place de la Concorde, through the Tuileries Gardens, along the Seine River, into the twelfth arrondissement and back along the boulevard Raspail all the way to Montparnasse, and on to Saint-Michel, Paris, ah Paris! The Seine River again, the quai des Orfèvres, Notre Dame Cathedral. They’re all choked up. But he keeps walking because you are more beautiful than anyone has ever been, and you’re a hot one too, and he starts singing his hernia’s anthem in which for the first time, and I mean the very first time, the White woman can bark about being equal to two Black ones. And he contemplates this miracle of concrete and fire, Paris by night, unsuspected navel of the world. A night made up of names and signs, witchcraft names from the world over, Vincennes, the eighth arrondissement, boulevard Masséna all the way to the Porte d’Italie, and these grape bunches of crazy names, salacious names, who reveal their sex thing to him, Gentilly, but the real Paris is in my hernia: he gives her some juices from back home to drink. Paris-Ceinture. Adolphe Pinard. Porte de Versailles, the Seine of Roosevelt, Saint-Cloud, Boulogne, Neuilly, people turn their heads to observe this monster armored with military decorations and covered in mud singing and carrying this very beautiful girl with big green eyes, blonde hair, hazelnut skin, and oval-shaped face on his shoulders; some whisper that this is the return of Jeanne d’Arc, what a striking mount she has chosen! Won’t you stop bothering me with all your media utensils: the real living here are the names, and the normal blood of Paris is the Seine. Stop bothering me with all your nonsense, dragging life along by the hair, well I don’t believe in your third sex. He pushes aside these male names and these female names: Garibaldi, Sèvres-Babylone, Emile Zola, that name stinks like those hernias from back home, Volontaires, Passy, Trocadéro, République, Nation, Bonne-Nouvelle, Michel-Ange-Molitor, Richelieu-Drouot, my hernia is right: the real living in Paris are the names; meanwhile all the passengers in the metro stare wide-eyed:
“Who on earth is this quarter of a White man carrying this blonde?”