It was one of those late May days when blue warm skies are expected but do not arrive and winters dour sister stares one blankly in the face<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
In the background my television was telling me that a serial killer had struck again and had killed another serial killer who had in turn been a serial killer of serial killers<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The news confuses me so much these days<\/em><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n I was writing a poem which I was going to call\u00a0Pulp Marie<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n But I have changed my mind and am going to call it<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The Apathy of Saints<\/em><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n In a month or so we will be in the South of France<\/p>\n <\/p>\n We visited this region last year<\/p>\n <\/p>\n It was very hot<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I like hard travelling and so does my wife<\/p>\n <\/p>\n After a shower we often walk around the apartment naked and watch French television<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The air does not cool until well after dark but by then we are both asleep<\/p>\n <\/p>\n We will discuss our dreams over breakfast<\/p>\n <\/p>\n As I watch the grey people lead their grey lives I feel a concern for the grey-green leaves that clothe the summer trees<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I worry for their mental health<\/p>\n <\/p>\n They were born into a world of promise but it has now darkened dull<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Will the warm breezes ever materialise<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Will the high sun ever return from its exile<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I am planning to take my wife to Nimes and the Pont Du Gard<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Perhaps we will paddle in the river as the southern days are always hot<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Or we might stop for a while on the bridge and drink chilled water<\/p>\n <\/p>\n When you are not looking I will follow a bead of sweat as it descends erratically from your swan neck into the valley of your breasts<\/p>\n <\/p>\n You will scold me and tell me that that you are not sweating and that the bead of sweat was a drop of spring water escaped<\/p>\n <\/p>\n For a while I will say nothing but as we walk along the riverside path I will inform you that I am changing the title of this poem back to the original<\/p>\n <\/p>\n This poem will be known as\u00a0Pulp Marie<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n You will ask me why I have called it\u00a0Pulp Marie<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n I will reply that I had no reason to call it\u00a0Pulp Marie\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" It was one of those late May days when blue warm skies are expected but do not arrive and winters dour sister stares one blankly in the face In the background my television was telling me that a serial killer had struck again and had killed another serial killer who had in turn been […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[1],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6389"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=6389"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6389\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=6389"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=6389"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=6389"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}