Mâlain Diaries 3 - Ode to the Roquefort

Mâlain Diaries 3 - Ode to the Roquefort

Bring me that smelly-feet cheese,

Oh King of Alsatians;

that rarest of creams raised in

damp caves of old.

Thou art a living piece of

pastures’ past

my sweet  wet

stinking

Bishop.

Bring me that pua! Epoisses, Pont

That makes my tongue sit up like a hard on;

that heady-home-grown, fungus-driven

   layers of spread.

Leave thy creamy blue and green

terroir

on my tongue,

thy

   miaw-meaux

Taleggio lover;

And I shall wash thy feet

with the

dry

crisp liquid

of my cask till my

 days’ end.

(Eric Aronson & Kyril Bonfiglioli's (2015) "Mordecai" (18s))

Mâlain Diaries 2

Mâlain Diaries 2

Why H &M? Why Aeropostale? Superdry, American Eagle or whatever it is today.

I don’t want to be a mass-produced, global

economy, stock-traded

widgetbeing.

I long for

pain traditionnel at a Boulangerie

   closed when you’re done work, and sometimes

   on Monday.

ancient maisons and floorboards where Molière, Voltaire, and Zola walked

   at 5’2” with no electricity.

carved balconies with sunset views over les montagnes

   no ascenseur for hauling groceries

    or my couch.

a quiet cappuccino in the piazza

  “€ 10 to sit”.

No £80 Abercrombie & Fitch for me.

No. Give me

$1 McDonald’s coffee; free seat,

elevator to the door

head room

light

inter-connected

   air

contact

shower-power

food that doesn’t lock its doors.

Bring forth thy hot-press heritage.

Mâlain Diaries 1

Mâlain Diaries 1

“She could tell you were English,”

he said to me accusingly,

ashamed of the obvious linguistic heritage,

the slight of being too-much-oneself.

<<Projet Réstauration>>

was the bénévolat work of our visit.

Ruins being rebuilt; scraping and

uncovering what once was shiny and strong.

“They don’t understand you. If you need to say something, just

tell me and

I will translate for you.”

They uncover the foundation walls first.

Ancient, once new, ‘no-fear’ walls.

Hardened stone that could still be seen through

Covered mounds of grass, like a wound

trying to insulate itself,

building protective layers around the core,

stop the damage.

Then they uncover cellars, deep within

we didn’t even know were there.

“I don’t know why you pretend to be French when you’re not.”

he says, he means, “You disgust me.”

Small bits of pottery shards, little glittering metal and

blue painted bone that can only be seen

once softly brushed for hours.

Held fragile as it has become through

neglect-worn years.