the Fruitless Man.

“I am the fruitless man,” said Jacques, “stuffed with doubts and guilt. The mornings wake me with birds and songs and light leaking through the shutters of my window. My grimy bed holds me with its warmth; my pillow soothes me in my ghost-ridden nights. I lay naked undone to the world; my lover has fled to his own lonely lair. His fine fingers combed through my hair, his lush lips kissed mine in our nightly love; Piaf sang to us as we loved and swooned and lay still beneath the ceiling’s gaze. He has gone now; his body fluids dry on my skin, his kisses stay damp on my cheek and lips. The morning air chills my skin; the smell of my lover seeps into my nose and heart, my passion yearns for his swift return. My father’s harsh words echo the room; his bullying ways haunt me even though he is dead and his bones picked clean; his dark eyes stare at me in the shadowy room; the cuff of his hand vibrates in my mind’s store. My mother’s love burns my flesh; her soft words touch my ears like falling feathers, her finger’s feel quietens my brow. The day beckons; the daylight fingers through the shutter cracks; the birdsong calls me from my lazy lay. The sounds of Paris rise from the street; the voices of the common folk invade my walls and ears. The woman upstairs stomps her floor; I hear her singing voice as I try to sleep; she sneers at me as she passes my door. Her lover beats her as they copulate; I hear the sounds through the off-white ceiling as the bed shakes and the cries fall upon the walls like stunned bats. I want to sleep; I want to embrace my body against the chill; I want to remember my lover’s hold, his kisses, his lovemaking skills; the nightly passions; the love that thrills. My body soaks the booze and smokes; my eyes grow weary of the day’s light; I want the comfort of the night. Piaf sings to me from the gramophone; her voices please my ears; a photograph of her hangs on the wall next to the Degas print in the hall. I want to kiss you harshly my lover said; he rocked my bed as a ship at sea; his lips kissed and fingers found me open to his wanton feel; I want him still. I walk the streets of Paris like a ghostly shadow; have my depressing thoughts in the passing crowds; feed my feeble flesh on the wine and smokes; watch life drift by like some useless clown with his humourless oft repeated jokes. The paradise of passion is my only heaven; the copulating nights are my only bliss; my lover’s departure through the door at dawn’s light is my lonely hell; his return to my lair at evening and his manly kiss and hold keeps me from the ghostly touches and hell’s cold.”1