fast Olivetti poems

in the middle of
Paris
at a Cafe
looking down at the
hard stone ground
counting
androids
in my head
and wishing i Had the Guts
to dial
her number again
so that we could go out 2night
and we could drink
wine 2night
and get pissy and bombed 2night
but
alas
i won't dial her. naw.


 i will just sit here instead
like a dumb Monsieur
typing and scribbling on
this
stupid phone
wearing these corduroy pants
and these embroidered loafers
that i stole
from the store because they make me
feel rich
and
lofty.....

and tomorrow maybe
when i wake up
in Paris again
leaving behind my dream
of torture
(for she tortures me inside
my dreams)

oh tomorrow maybe
when I'll be one day older
i will stroll down the Old Rue here
and
i'll be smoking my electrified bogie
blowing out bright thick
white bubbles of smoke
all these dumb Parisians staring at me
and i'll be staring up at the blue ciel'
and i'll scream
maybe
like i used to do back in
Providence Rhode Island
and i'll stomp my feet
on the Cold hard Ground and
i'll take my phone out of the
corduroy pants
(which, i guarantee you,i'll still be wearing
even after sleeping)
and i'll check to see
did she
call
did
she
call
did
she
call

and if she called i will run
galloping
suddenly
flickering and flashing into a Horse
or an Anubis
in the streets of paris
and i'll scream just
like i said
back in
Providence
and
then she will
call call call call call call
again and again
and she'll say
"IM FLYING IN
TO CHARLES DE GAULLE
IM COMING
TO MARRY YOU
IN PARIS
AND WE ARE
NEVER
GOING HOME
OK?"

and i'll
just faint
and
get bombed
2night
dreaming
of it
and
this.