There’s a hole in my Stetson hat
My pocket’s got a hole in it
Thru which I travel to a cult comics store on
Rue Mouffetard
In the 6eme arrondisement of my grief
Yodel away Hank
I won’t recall your jumbo jet
From the morning skies of another man’s grief
Your silk-screened shoes are to small
To contain your tears
I don’t mind bringing you sandwiches, falafels,
We’ll spread them out on your lino floor
A smorgasbord of indecisiveness
Throw the rubbish into a hole in the floor
The window to your rubbber soul
I don’t mind
A stale baguette poking out of your Celine calfskin
Make a dress out of your shower curtains
I can now see your pubic hair
My favourite red pubic hair
The colour of rotten tangerines
I have come back to Paris again and again
In the banlieu of my suburban mind
I have to stop thinking
And let nature take its remedial course
Who will bring the sunshine?
Who will take the rain?
I know you didn’t mean it
But this time you didn’t wait for me to hang up
And I know this is just for starters
Gothic literature gives you the license to dream
Perchance, to dream of sustained misery in total silence
After six months you forget what makes you attractive to her in the first place
A pigeon pecks on an empty park bench
It was when you couldn’t stop instant messaging on your BlackBerry
When I asked you to please, pay attention to my whining
Like wearing Swear London shoes in a sea of Trippens
That’s me to you
Like being in the right milieu
In the wrong century
Every time.
Divagyrations 