southbound line five is the best place to commit suicide, in Paris. he thought standing at the platform each week on wednesday. twentyfive past five both in age and time the métro lines increase rate and speed to accommodate the multitude of masses. the first french office cogs and public servants returning. home early to beat the rush hour rabbit hole derby. little by little increasing with : students shuffling from books to bars, evening bistro shifts beginning. with : quick aperitif and dinner no later than eight though happy hour ends at ten. toiling youth but part-time, mobile and constantly moving. through the underground city.
Gare de l’Est going down, to another day of free labor. on projects he likes hoping. someday to make a break, while inside the growing knowing. these twenty-five past five aren’t going to be slowing. down here under the city. métro moving below, children on top. middle-eastern mothers picking them up for the neighborhood walk from school to domicile ; tourists getting lost. above : the cars and the fury where bankrupt bourgeois escape the city, burning their last liter of essence. nobility letting apartments in the center. for seven-hundred heavy euro : a box with a bed, piss in the hall. one months wages for one, so he and she live in two. though he doesn’t love her anymore. descending seven stages in the morning to come here below. through the underground city.
announce overcoming. the muddle of people moving over six tracks of station : direction Place d’Italie the next train dans une minute. standing southbound at the beginning where the métro comes. running up around a rapid curve, so blind the driver can’t see it coming. but he’s thinking of the bridge just below, seven stations from here. crossing the scene of the Seine and all of the seven wonders, above : métro ascending outside attending daylight height at the side of the centerville horizon. Notre Dame taking center stage between shimmering afternoon rays over waters that split. the land in two her rising. on the right Saint-Jacques protecting Pascal looking left. to the dome of the grand home of the grand men stately on the hill ; four green suicides float behind. with last loving humdrum home of Montmartre made prostrate by communist killing white cupcakes and an Eiffel final backdrop prop postcard signed. seven things that don’t belong to him. here in the underground city.
done it a hundred times, rumbling coming stepping to the line. in the underground city seeing. no light but he’s thinking here below. of the last he wanted to go, gone in direction Italy where his being spent seven years in black glasses. bleeding above with sun and revolutionary fervor, below broken arms against foes and ghosts in his heart hidden. because he doesn’t love her anymore and so. on he left in exile, exhorting more for his twentyfive past five life. now stepping to the line near hear it coming. for the second time again, further far from where he’s thinking here below. fifteen past five on the other side of the ocean. leaving concrete stacks raining in the north for foreign shores of abandoned austral acts, southbound on five. the longest bus ride of his life. done it a hundred times hoping. someday to make her take him in, while inside the growing knowing. that she doesn’t love him anymore, ending in argentina. and before : step to the line of five past five feeling the rumbling. coming thrice to his mother demise, found her hanging in humiliation. because she doesn’t love him anymore. happy hour ends at ten. in the underground city.
seventh step, he looks left. the driver can’t see it coming. rumbling past the line. twentyfive past five in life and time, southbound. in the underground city.
the door slides he stepping inside southbound on line five, alive. sitting beside he sinks into the seat watching careful not to step on. he notices her feet : flipflops floored, far worn and black. simple second skin so thin ten toes touching the turf, nails painted red. one station of seven. doors open and on steps a parisian musician already strumming his little guitar. mesdames et monsieurs, bon voyage. and he sings : J’ai deux amours. time slows in the underground city.
two stations of seven now twentynine past five though thirty will never arrive. bustle and hustle changing at major station : five lines crossing high pandemonium people young and exceeding, rebel Belleville only two stops away. revitalizing laughter, chitter and chatter but he. only looking low enchanted : her jeans are tatters. banded around her ankles two small strings of bells and bright beads. holes unraveling her knees free and tanning, cotton dreadlocks dangling down. these jeans are she : delighting in permanent dispersion. open in the underground city.
her hands holding, long fingers folding pages. apollo’s parisian poet professing love for tender puts and. bending curvaceous at métro station stop three of seven but not. only admiring the firm touch of the fold slow, descent along side the spine and up just in time. to proceed to another page patient, several stainless steel bracelets twinkling all the while. like stars in the underground city.
stations four Richard-Lenoir still southbound though losing direction. following instead a thin green line with his eyes : petite vine entangles and binds from her wrist wrapping, left forearm flourish and growing. little leaves and swirling stems spring to, passiflora passion shining on her shoulder embolden. purple petals etched in the permanent pleasure of her skin, otherwise honey and tan. a warm rainstorm pouring in the underground city.
bust and her body black wrapped though not in vines : the finest fit of a warn perfect. shirt so thin cotton becomes silk, the smiths logo long ago fading. neat rips and a small slit, between her breasts and belly shading small shadows behind. diaphanous dress, flesh buttons hard and high on line five passing the fifth through her turns bending towards Bastille. beauty begetting the underground city.
sixth and nearly it’s finished, this endless underground city. again almost everyone descends, monsieur musician gathers his modest money earned. in silence she with one simple stroke, tress she tucks neatly behind her right ear revealing : slender traits of an open face and a slight smile. supple lips moist and red, mouth forming impeccable points at the ends. her eyes though, still partially hidden : huge lenses of seventies sunglasses filtering the light, bigger than bright. but in spite visible are her eyelashes reaching. for the sky, métro now leaving the underground city.
seventh stop, she looks left. she too knows its coming : from the quay de la Râpée canal Saint-Martin connects to the sun of the Seine and light. depart and she stands going to the window. past the curve where death is burned and everything emerges : he she seven wonders and the world. he she looks up smiling, she smiles. no longer lonely in the underground city.