Breakfast in Paris

And so I was jamming in the morning sun, forgetting the last night in paris and waiting for eva cardinale 2 bring some freshly brewed darjeeling tea. She was always late. But how could anyone mind her being anything, late, a slut, even a mother. That was her greatest burden and that was her most valueble side of all. She has always been beautufil, but ever since she became a mother, she transferred from girl to woman, from young to old, from beautufil to icon, from pretty to wow.

 

I have always believed that the young were the lucky ones, that young tits and asses were those who should be up on the billboards and right in our faces. And I was right. That’s where they belong. Up on some wooden piece of nothing, up on some brick wall. But in my hands, on my skin and within my flesh I do not want no pin up, I want a mother, a round and good, a smiling and shining woman. A soul that has been through the deepest of all emotions, that has had the marvellous joy of bringing life into this world, of using her breast to feed the future of her own destiny.

 

The sadest thing I have ever seen, were not the dead bodies laying in front of berlin, were not the sad eyes of german schlager singer michelle not winning the grand prix déurovision de la chanson, no it was seeing so many mothers being ashamed of giving birth. Being ashamed of having their bodies used as temple, as a birthplace of a lifeform. They began to creep around, they started a war within themselves, trying to get rid of any glimpse of gold, of any sign of motherhood and trying to become that pin up girl they used to be. after having fulfilled all their effort, they looked like a used lippstick, like worn pennys. Still somewhat pretty, but used and old and all glamour they had within, laying on that bed, on those white sheets , covered with blood all over their aching bodies and having their afterbirth between their legs, all that glamour was gone. And that I found to be sad.

 

When Eva walked out of the kitchen and hit the terrace having the sun over her hair and within her pale and flushing shadow, she smiled and said:

“Darjeeling tea is so pretty.” I looked at her and just said “yes, it is”. She sat down, entered the world of emanuel Gomez, kalinda natreshnikowa and amalie lindenstein and we both began to sing a song: “ich hab alles verloren und stehe ganz nackt, wie neugeboren in tüchern gepackt, hab alles verloren, nichts das ich bereu, hab alles verloren und mach alles neu…”

We always sang that song when summer went into fall and the mountains behind the Eiffel tower disappeared for a greater good and for the cause of freedom.

“Do you think the war in irak is a war that jesus would have fought”, I asked her while pouring the tea. She took a look to the right, sneaked into one window where a pilates class was just cooling down and said, “ yeah, I think he would have fought against western troups coming into his country.would u please pass me the toast, dear.” We always had toast on Sunday mornings. Baguette we had during le semain as we would call a week of work. But at weekends and especially on Sunday mornings, we went for toast. And so 2day we were having toast for it was a Sunday and not a Wednesday or a Thursday and no Friday either. We once had toast on a thursday, but we couldn´t quite get used to it, for it was during le semain and usually we have baguette then. “ Do you think god would rather see an American putting up a wooden stick into the ass of an arab in order to force him to admit a crime he didn´t commit or would god rather see an arab holding the scalb of an American in his right hand while holding the koran in the other? Eva took the first zip of the Darjeeling tea while asking that question. I held my forehand against the cup, to see whether the tea was still too hot for me 2 drink it and I replied: “ I don´t think he cares. How about some butter dear?”, she smiled and said “ I would love to, thank you darling.”

Leave a comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *