Song: What to do when your penis transforms into Serge Gainsbourg
Viewed: 104 - Published at: 3 years ago
Artist: Marc Zarvox
Year: 2012Viewed: 104 - Published at: 3 years ago
It lies there in its wiry couch and winks at you listlessly before lighting up another Gitanes. You don’t mention the burning sensation this time, because the sight of your testicles performing a ‘Gallic shrug’ makes you want to vomit out your soul.
On the bus, you manage to forget that your penis has transformed into Serge Gainsbourg until a whistled melody emerges from your pants, part nostalgia, part adventure. ‘Stop tapping your feet, you horrible people!’ you shout as you leave the bus two stops early. Later you piss and he mocks your petty act of martyrdom with a witty limerick. You almost slam his warty head on the ceramic until you remember.
You go to Starbucks. You read the newspaper. When you look up, a college girl with bangs and innumerable bra straps is giggling at your pants and writing down her telephone number. She takes your hand and presses the paper into it. She looks you in the eye and says, “you should probably zip that up now.” In horror you do so. He laughs like he is on a chat show and just caused a scandal.
At home, the night has fallen boring on your neighborhood. You pace around your living room, thinking about making the call. It would still be your penis. It would still be you. As you contemplate, he coughs blood down your thigh. You have no other pants. The decision has been taken out of your hands.
A month later, after you have made some memorable phone calls, you sit in Paris in a black suit, in the wheelchair that Mitterand once used, in the Pantheon. The operation was a failure, France mourns its icon again. Beautiful women linger around you. There is a rumor that the stump has magical powers. You get the number of the winner of the last season of Star Academy.
At your hotel you remove the dressing and look at the amputation site. You wipe away a layer of pus and your knees buckle when you see what is there. There will be no dates with starlets. Not as long as the wrinkled face of an aged Jane Birkin stares out from your groin.
On the bus, you manage to forget that your penis has transformed into Serge Gainsbourg until a whistled melody emerges from your pants, part nostalgia, part adventure. ‘Stop tapping your feet, you horrible people!’ you shout as you leave the bus two stops early. Later you piss and he mocks your petty act of martyrdom with a witty limerick. You almost slam his warty head on the ceramic until you remember.
You go to Starbucks. You read the newspaper. When you look up, a college girl with bangs and innumerable bra straps is giggling at your pants and writing down her telephone number. She takes your hand and presses the paper into it. She looks you in the eye and says, “you should probably zip that up now.” In horror you do so. He laughs like he is on a chat show and just caused a scandal.
At home, the night has fallen boring on your neighborhood. You pace around your living room, thinking about making the call. It would still be your penis. It would still be you. As you contemplate, he coughs blood down your thigh. You have no other pants. The decision has been taken out of your hands.
A month later, after you have made some memorable phone calls, you sit in Paris in a black suit, in the wheelchair that Mitterand once used, in the Pantheon. The operation was a failure, France mourns its icon again. Beautiful women linger around you. There is a rumor that the stump has magical powers. You get the number of the winner of the last season of Star Academy.
At your hotel you remove the dressing and look at the amputation site. You wipe away a layer of pus and your knees buckle when you see what is there. There will be no dates with starlets. Not as long as the wrinkled face of an aged Jane Birkin stares out from your groin.
( Marc Zarvox )
www.ChordsAZ.com