deep in Richmond among the rank
                                     Peugeots, les ateliers bijoux, and the wastrel
Green sky, i smoke with my
    concubines
on the verandah of a dripping portugeuse colonial
villa        Swan st. Blue toucan neon, you are as gay as
the day Was spent hungover in bed on a down-
                  stream blow-up phantasm of harvesting lilypads &
                                         unspent German shells in a pond of merrie ongelonde
      from a travel brochure with a stubborn hardon
Blazer rich with your own smell, camembert
                                   spoiling in the glare and the curlicue knife's gentle
                      suggestions of a stabbing frenzy, because the one
You want is the one who hasn't the least heat for you
   Your brown haird secretary from Braunschweig who
Plays with everything at the table and looks infinitely
Away it's pouring in the alcove you can just make out
The dead and bemused Rimbaud
               Loitering in the darkened joists that hold aloft
The haunted MCG,
               & the auroreal sophistry
    Of the frick-headed magpie, who teases you for being
  Not the last one left alive.
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