with bumps on it, and pink glasses,
and Lady Bracknell, a broken record
who always says the same thing twice,
and then there's my image in the mirror.
This image, the most Lacan of my friends,
is writ in water, won't shut his eyes.
Even when I'm bad, he takes me,
and unlike my woman friend the broken record
never repeats what I say, what I say
Kevin's his name, and Kevin his reflection.
He's got a bad bite on the side of his neck.
Where I thought it was love, he knows
what the fuck I was doing with
a glass of wine in human form.
Under the influence of your love I
broke off with Mr. Potato, the Irishman.
Once I'd adored him and gone round the world.
Under the influence of your love I
made a few mistakes, I see, in my mirror,
in the mystic ball mounted in the garden.
The sun seems to whisper what time it is,
and rows of flowers bow and curtsy,
stately as diplomats. Daisies who don't tell
what the fuck I'm doing in a garden,
under your influence, in your wine,
hearing your whine across a hollow of
dark tarn, friendless now in your love, in
your urine like a string of blood
churned in a vodka, so, where am I?
