Intermission / Overview

Old Lamoux. Sweet and heavenly. A book full of sweet poetry. A book full of beautiful art for all to see. It is a gift to walk into this city. It is a gift to open this book and to read such words. Old Lamoux. And when any of the population falls in love the city’s spirit grows and shudders. And the blankness of death is held off for another season.

Like the green green lawns that slope into the days and years. That fade into golden dust for Summer. Like the church services for Saint Gideon and the needs of men and the nicknames of whores.

And nothing has changed. Not in Lamoux. Everybody knows nothing really changes. Not for Kings or Dukes or bankers or beggars or for the Angels themselves. This is why the Artists love the city. Permenance is the artisans best friend.

Nothing changes for the population. They were born children of Lamoux and this is how they die. This is how they fall in love. Who they fall in love with. Every year enough people fall in Love to balance the crime, to balance the blackness of Lamoux’s soul. Their love is the white caps upon the forceful waves that roll into the harbour. That break against the wharf’s peers. And the poets of Lamoux lie in their beds or on their floors. Backs atop their patterned rugs. Having thoughts of pretty hands over ears atop blades of grass. And love making in the afternoons. with fogged over panes.

Without feeling the danger of comparison Lamoux is classed as one of the most antiquated and beautiful cities of Europe. Their future has always been free, like the loose fitting skirts of their women. Like the liberal whistles of their men. The summers of their dark ages (the lonely days) were recorded in lost documents of great volumes by the educated wordsmiths of the high classes. These were stolen by the lower class poet authorities and rewritten as sonnets. Sonnets of love and death and the ghosts of Gods. A blurred mix of words, sex, love, poetry. These poets would dream of horses. Tho they knew the horses didn’t dream of them.

The Poets and artists travel every day. From Cafe to Cafe. From Quarter to Quarter. They travel thinking of Africa everyday. That new babylon. They walk in the cardboard shoes of the poor. They carry their books. Their charcoal pencils. They carry their thoughts of war and sleepless nights. The say that together they have the power to turn Lamoux into their own country. A country that makes that new wine for the youth. A country where wedding rings signify the opposite. They want the hearts of the children of Lamoux to beat louder. To make the pulsations bigger. For the whole world to hear the thud of their new country. Letting everyone know (and embedding the memory) of the origin of reason and symbolism.

Here in oceanic sunbeams the punches of Lamoux’s pulse give all its inhabitants longer and stronger life. This in turn gives their minds my time to wonder. More time to plan. More time to give rise to heightened sensations. From the couples walking in the first park by the zoo to the Ladies who work in the cigar factory.

They grind leaf and twig ‘tween their long fingers. Given to them by their mother’s families. They smell the smooth scent of puberty. The stench of holy age. Their ears are primed and focus on the herd of keys upon the piano being played in an apartment across the back fence. The piano’s keys dully polished by the lady-like fingers of an elderly gentleman.

Winter brings the tallest of waves to the shores of Lamoux. Some even crashing around the base of the Roman lighthouse. A great tower in which to set a flame alight inside. To guide the ghosts of Lamoux to the centre of the markets. Where the brass band plays and the pigeons nest. Most lonely men will walk here after drinking away their nights. To stave off their hunger with fire and sex.  And unroll the muslin on which to lie. Some don’t feel as if they will escape. Some don’t feel as if they will be saved.

Most believe that Lamoux looks after its children. Most believe that Saint Gideon will look after Lamoux. And the folly of all will be recorded as will the brave deeds. In the kingdom of pavers. In the library of Lamoux. Founded with the bounty given to the city for handing over the scabbard and sword of Alexander the great. Found beneath the lighthouse and given back to the Macedonians. And Lamoux built the Library. To house the papers that document its criminals. To house the documents that outline all the good deeds. To withhold all the poetry written by the poets. To alphabetise the love letters written by the lovers. To file the ransom notes. It is a grand building. With its rear exit backing onto an orchard. which is full of blossom and lovers in the spring. Fruit and children in the Autumn. Fallen kites in the summer and snow and blood trails in the winter.

In Lamoux all can be placated. It is the playing of the symphony in the park by the zoo in the summer. All the aged sit at their windows looking out. Smoking what could be their last cigarette. All the youth are out lying on the grass. Everyone’s lips and smiles stained with wine. Everyone’s breath staining the summer breeze with the scent of liquor. The Symphony still plays. Those who find their feet are not weighed or tied with the cities languor find a partner to dance. As the sun sets of Lamoux. The aural opiate of the symphony seems to control the length of time the golden circle stays in the sky. Finally they let it fall. The lamps are lit and the people sigh collectively. Not even christmas makes everyone feel as good as these summer days when the symphony plays in the park by the zoo.

The Rue d’Bloom is the centre for lust and broken hearts. It is where the poor go to work when they can no longer afford sardines and cigarettes. They go there to dance. They go there to fix broken hearts with laughter. They go there to put themselves through college to see which alphabets are becoming extinct.

The Rue d’Bloom is a road where the jazz singers are seen. Their negro hands holding leashes connected to big friendly hounds. The dancers are seen walking up and down. Dressed in their high-heels and the dresses with sequins in which both lamp light and moon light are reflected in. Smiling and holding hands with one another for safety. The negro’s language isn’t theirs but they speak it. The Rue d’Bloom is the road on which the men walk with their tight pants, and polished shoes, their carefully combed hair and eyes lined with the blackest of eye-liner. They are taken and paid by customers who use them to make them feel like kings. These customers never see the sardonic smiles on the corners of their mouths. Their handshake is called the milkshake. They are a solid group of men brought together by heartache, hurt and the love or Lamoux. Intermingled with the regular street crawlers are the tourists and the sailers and the criminals and the men and women who make Lamoux’s soul a little darker each night. And down there on the street, on the Rue d’Bloom through every crack in the pavement, between the buildings and up from the blocked gutters, the rosemary flourishes.

Many have found the road to Lamoux. That steady road. She who owns the poets, and the stupid, and the farmers. Many have found the road to Lamoux and kissed its fine dust. They have kissed the path of soldiers. They have kissed the path of the young, and the returning way of the smiling, all knowing old. Lined by elms and oaks. Budding, yellowing, or bare. Many have found the road to Lamoux hemmed by fences. Stone, wooden, barbed.

They have seen its ditches were the living have slept and the banks were their ghosts have awoken. The road that joined with rivers and crossed their shadowed depths.

Many have found the road to Lamoux. Many have carved their names into an elm. They have crossed the fences and walked over the fields. They have swam the rivers. And they know. They know. It will not be long before other people follow. Some will find Lamoux and never walk the road again. Some will return after many years and notice the road has changed. That someone found a path that led an easier way. And more people followed. Forsaking the road that was the first. It will be overgrown and forgotten. This road that took them to Lamoux. Like the memory of all the souls who walked it into the city of the Roman Lighthouse. Of all their loves, all their stories, all their times, good and bad within the city of Lamoux.

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~ by yesknow on August 23, 2010.

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