the princess of the pullout couch slowly shakes out her ponytail 

her back feeling badly broken from a bump in the mattress

peagreen with jealousy 

she glares at her host’s large comfortable water bed

in the shadow of love and confusion

she brings her hairpin sharply down on the coverlet

sputtering and murmuring, resentment drips down her leg and laps at her feet

she giggles as maniacally as a princess can

 not easy to remain delicate while snorting with laughter

she dances a victory jig over the bed’s oozing guts

hurls herself in circles with the violence of aggression simulating happiness

becoming one with the revenge puddle

treading water in self deception, backflips in the gaze of others 

she suddenly lies still, shame trickling down her cheeks

self- reflection is no fun unless its your face

Bottles lie in mid erection

Men play in mid-reflection

Cafe, ricard, call me dick, says the peanut vending machine

The match at the telly, the scratch on the belly

Wine, Pastis - call me whatever you like - says the tap to the glass

La Table ronde pour les amis intimes

Color wheel in different tones of ugly

But unexplainably clean tables

nice ugly - Jimmy Stewart’s balding uncle

ici le bonheur n’est pas universel, chaque table en a un

happiness, like ugliness, has many faces

et vice versa

said Socrates, before calling for a cock, and dying

said Nietzsche, before kissing a horse and becoming mad

“my what big hands you have”

The better to hide my face, ugly ugly face

you won’t see it when I’m riding you

le luce di tse coudele, che schiauire me non illumine

Kuflkarung, Klarung auf dem Berg, Buchenau, Rassenfrage aufgeklart

Not the brightest bulb on the christmas tree

le tue pelle color perce si vivente di una polvere d’ambre

Be waffnen, waffen, waffelm. Bewaffeln nun, wohin gehen wir?

Nor the brightest crayon in the box

Sembre che il tuo collo pane avere un profumo diverso, morbido, non lo reprodstarere

Bunte Gleichheiten, fraues Feuerwerk, Neusaltes, Sterben im heben.

Playing pretend, playing doctor, playing house.

Being and event - existing in pauses between obligations

like hearts that stop just to listen to a voice

yet compose their verses with to do lists

such as: buy three copybooks

to fill with truth and creativity between the hours of ten and three

back and forth, just to evaporate minutes in groups of five

In my mother tongue we can kill time, but in yours?

ammazare il tempo

or to keep time in striated space

il echappe quand meme, comme un frottement d’ailes

none of it matters, which shouldn’t itself matter then, but…

….anyway something glitters

I only want time when it’s yours.

my professor’s nosehairs sprout like walrus tusks

his nose tilting slightly upward, as if balancing an invisible beach ball

wading boots tucked into sweatpants, he barks concepts as students clap their flippers 

their mouths hungrily open, waiting to catch acknowledgment-fish

licking their lips, twitching ecstatically

they receive their grades and then dive headlong into their texts once again

wet and briny smelling they sun themselves in mutual admiration

and pat each others’ backs with flat, loud slaps

they flop forward on furry stomachs, limp and heavy, overweight jockeys on broken rocking chairs

and shuffle out of the classroom, yelping happily.

i wonder what anthony bourdain’s earring thinks of all of this

greasy vagueness and metallic precision

a reluctant parasite, a homebody who despises the smell of cooking onions

translucent and sweating, seasoning moldy bathrobe and breaded couch

dreaming of stillness and silence while pressed against phones

metallic longing for unexpressed symmetry

glimpses of other lone ear adornments across crowded streets

fleshy lobes longing to be pierced

a silver glint in a puddle - just a reflection

narcissus and pigs trotters

getting lost - jewelry has no use for maps

 the air has become just cold enough to make going braless impolite

or, if not impolite, perhaps a little too suggestive

vile murmuring, a strange tongue in your ear canal

brown leaves cling to branches with a single dry fingernail

clippings lie in ashtrays like bizarre offerings

the golden dregs of an abandoned beer become darker

a fermenting mirror predicting one night stands

snarls of light and tangled expectations

you whisper, let’s go to your place 

what the fuck is panache anyway

this i demand to know from a well dressed swan with two small children and a gambling addiction

the swan replies, after taking the cigar from its beak

if you look at the feet of a swan while it’s swimming the illusion is destroyed

because its panache is HUGE 

cities live in it, strive succeed and die in it — and go unnoticed

im sorry, what?  i wasnt paying attention

Ugly men with small dogs

and larged men with well dressed dogs

medium sized dogs with middle aged men

young women with old hot dogs

great danes shivering with pink fuzzy dicks

great dames shivering with pink fuzzy tits

macbeth’s hands with hamlets balls

jane austen’s mouth with howard stern’s calls

goonight sweet prince of white castle

the nuclear fun plant is shutting down

leaving acqua portapotties in the shape of the new york skyline

photo negative fireworks pull light from the sky

black neurons snaking down her skin

champagne tears spill from her window eyes

the image of miley cyrus appears in rust stained windows of an abandoned factory sparking pilgrimage and revelation of apocalypse

“this is the best party i’ve ever been to,” she thinks, but won’t remember

compliments make the universe nervous