Période, and the tower out the
Window. It was transported over ze
Sea! Well that's one way, isn't-it-not.
Romance is a dead horse- Nietzsche
Knew about that. Gendarmes
Guard the girders and Hitler
Only had one boule- he held the
Key in his grubbed up mitt- a Man.

We traverse the Tuileries and look at yon
Kittiwake. He hisses and drives back the
Dross. Get out, he squawks and pierces the
Enemy. The golden ball that rests on the
Water is just for show- this will end
Badly. Faces in a cafe and old skins lying
Around like off a snake. Casual tears and
A church with crosses made from driftwood

Or birch. I am jealous of the peace. There
Is no peace. I think the idea brings me
Peace. Paris. And what
Are you? A beautiful pile of rubble.
The river is high with rain. Padlocks flap
In the thin wind. People try and hang onto things.
In danger of exploding- our bags are full of

Weapons. We are terrorists and terrify
Ourselves. But what about we say. What 
About? And all these bones. What about these
Six million sets of ivories! You kiss me hard
In the bedroom and we wonder about the
Girl in the wallpaper, the rakish Gent-bird,
Hurt by exactitude-
Ossifying in the dark like a self.