CANNES DREAMS

Friday, July 24, 2009

CANNES DREAMS

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns

The actor is dying a slow, sombre death.

Is it time to retire when joy is no longer there?

I still long to stroll along La Croisette at Cannes, again,

But, this time, to walk the red carpet in my finery.

Diamond studs in my ears.

A huge wad of money in my pocket.

The paparazzi foaming at the mouth.

Winning Best Actor at the awards ceremony on the closing night.

Smoking a joint with Jack Nicholson on his rented yacht in the harbour.

Drinking champagne with Meryl Streep in her suite at the Carlton Hotel.

Where is the kind, sexy lover I thought I would find?

The house by the sea with acres of rolling hills

And a swimming pool in the backyard?

I was really only looking for mass love

To make up for all the childhood jeers.

Life turned out so different than I planned.

Foolish, unrealistic dreams replaced by living nightmares

And boring jobs.

People can be so difficult to get along with

Or am I to blame?

No need for you to shed tears for me.

I’d hate to come back as a child soldier

Or a maimed, starving baby in Darfur.

In India, parents cut off their children’s fingers

And gouge out their eyes.

It brings in more money from begging.

Forever trolling for sex in strange places.

Unlit forests and bathhouse corridors.

My gut getting bigger as each year passes.

Sinking into a snake pit of shrieking cannibals and rude retorts.

Let the oxygenated blood flow.

This planet is full of beauty and horror,

In equal measure.

The Scales of Justice tip over and come crashing to the ground.

There are no survivors.

I want to climb into an alternate reality

Where everything is bright and perfect

And soiled events don’t crush my ugly enthusiasm.

I miss the fireworks at Cannes,

Our car parked so far away from the Palais.

Watching classic foreign films,

With no subtitles, on the beach,

Sitting jetlagged in a deck-chair in the sand,

With stars in my eyes and unbridled hope twisting around in my full belly.

The butterfly is emerging from the cocoon.

No one has shown him how to fly.

I wish I could relive the Buddhist doctrine.

These frustrated desires are killing me.

Steam rises from my body after every sexual encounter

But only in my dreams.

All I want is to live life to the fullest

With every moment wrapped in mauve velvet paper.

Imaginary rubies dripping from my delicate fingers.

Wagner to greet me, in person, at the gates of Heaven.

(Though, of course, they don’t really exist.)

Salvador Dali to paint a birthday card for me

With Liza Minnelli jumping out of the cake.

I bought all those silly lies in movie magazines

And on the boob tube.

The Mediterranean air made me feel invigorated and whole.

Who knows what the future holds?

Forget the blackness from the past.

There is so much to be thankful for.

Every breath can’t be orgasmic, unfortunately.