Strasbourg

Roule, poupée, roule.
Serrée entre les cuisses,
Appuie, amante en cuir,
Laisse-moi glisser, coulisser,

Pédalant dur, je me tiens fermement,
Le vent dans les cheveux, la main sur la sonnette,
Je roule pendant des heures,
Descends et sens
L’odeur entêtant de selle usée.

Genoux pliés, dos cambré
Je l’étreins, proche, je freine,
Et quand je presse le guidon
Elle pousse des cris de plaisir.

Bousculade, jaillissement, je continue à propulser
Sur son cadre
Et quand la ligne d’arrivée approche,
Le caoutchouc brûle de chaleur.

Arrête, entre les
Jambes, elle est mise sous clé,
Personne peut la toucher,
Avant que je roule encore…

November

It's November, which only means one thing: it's National Novel Writing Month. These past few months have seen me move back across the channel to my much-beloved France. My current humble abode is a beautiful farmhouse nestled in the heart of the Limousin. During the intensely hot Indian summer, I revelled in divine solitude, read books for pleasure (a novelty, indeed), foraged in hedgerows, made chutneys and jams and contemplated the wonders of being entirely removed from the oppressive society I once inhabited. You may wonder what precisely is wrong with me. I'm not entirely sure, myself, but I am certain of one thing: I had to escape.

I know that the pressures of my final year at university pretty much drained my soul of any joy I'd ever had. It was a horrible year; one I will never repeat, and prefer not to think of. Embarking on my new life in France has restored me to my old wonderful self. I am no longer trapped by microcosmic university life, or arbitrary standards of living which demand a certain type of behaviour. Living alone is vastly underrated by the vast majority of people. I'm not bothered if I don't wash up one evening, or if I decide to blast music through the house, or sleep 'til noon.

No, instead, I choose a frenzy of writing. My target: 50000 words by the end of this month. I wonder if I'll succeed.