but who can tell

europe

	room

a porn clip would not require the french press
the four crossed boulevard richard lenoir in two couples,

steadily. why, in those two, the dead of night.
coordinates missing

presumed holiday
study money
the city. grave of the sippers
trees on their way to town
thought of the page spoiling
dough climbing

down the organs

to print dresses flush with bodies

pass

express & yourself

by chairs

the door stopped
he stooped compared

to his fingernails
obligatory fields, obscurantist hair

i get trouble from the customs

officer for talking
carefully described hatred of towns flowing under the concrete steps.
a message comes over the tapestry

those are just some vices
all paintings in men are brothers
red heaven
follow like wax
planet fuck
life the frustration of living force,

said thru a kazoo
shofar practice
move from bungalow to salon

a little in the giant flow
don’t ask me when i am coming back to europe

but i will fly there on my spare copy of à rebours
neutral final