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“My Funny Valentine ” – by Stéphane Pompougnac, for the Album, 'Hôtel
Saturday Afternoon at Hotel Étage.
Yes it is A slow and slinky smoothe Saturday Afternoon at Hotel Étage. I promise each day will be Valentines
day. I promise if you stay in my life.
Ah the slow tinkle of music rising to dance in the warm evening by the sea… I can see the night will provide all the gifts her lilting Sorceresses mouth whispers to me. . . and we dance. . . Where does love begin. . . in the taste of a kiss the color of the sea…near where I lived and want to live again with the one that has always filled my heart.
She filled my soul with enough love to last me all my life. How long it has lasted. aah. . .
It is morning I watch the movement of dreams on the slick café side walks of my ocean city. . .
She tells me all sorts of little meaningless things. That are neither important nor comprehensible. All I can hear is her voice and it the music of my soul. I slide and swirl through her words down her throat to her heart. Listen to its rhythyms. . .
I really don’t know what she is talking about, but I do know that I know her through her voice. . .
rush. stop. rush. stop. brakes. red light green light. We are always in
a hurry to go some where to relax. Race thru this chaos to get to paradise…
The paradiddle off the bongos coincides with the swing to over take on the free-way and as we cruise thru the underpass and on to the open beach road I realize that I am driving us to craziness.
Light another cigarette and speak in secret alphabets.
And I know that we are the party. Hot heated hot. . . I think I am suffering from radiation sickness caused by the heat from her physique.
And when I talk to her I observe that she melts a little more.
Melting right out of that print floral dress…the big red hibiscuses are trailing off the fabric and out of the window leaving a trail of red smears across the smooth cyan dome of heaven. . .
I wish I knew her name. No I do know her name – I mean the name she calls herself. That name. . .
The one I want to carve on a palm tree some where on this beach of for-ever.
As the tabla begins to play in the cool evening breeze, and the sound
of the flutes rise into the dark blue, I take one deep breath. . . watch
“Rapida, rapida, rapida. . . ”
she rises out of the sand…and I begin to sing her praise… Are there not enough words to describe her ineffable beauty. Is there not enough blood in my heart to ring the bell of heaven? Enough air in my lungs to rend the stars out of their vault. For at each turn she fixes me with her stare, as steady and piercing. Demanding, beseeching, begging me not to stop my exultation of her fluid dance of Kali in the flames of her own desire.
There are not the words. Except The Word. The snake charmer flute she
slides down, and I sing that song of a thousand days of watching her slide.
It is all a dream. Only a dream? A dream coming true or reality fading
into a dream. I cannot be sure except that I do not want for it to ever
Eleven – ah my Little Snake of Isis. What could any man want more than to feel the silk of your touch? Cool and hot at the same time. I am breathless for you. When you sing to me. . . sing to me. . . sing to. . . sing. . . sing. . . jussssssst. . . . aaaH!
Twelve – Back to reality oh no! No ! The drive is back. Get dressed baby we are going out Oh my, my…Oh Hell yes, honey put on that party dress…
I promise if you stay in my life. . . .
– Originally written: 2 November 2003 while I waited for The Donna Darkwolf to eventually arrive in my life.
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