2038. GENDARME RIMBAUD

GENDARME RIMBAUD

The plodding hipsters have all fallen down;

they lie in their own waste, spittle, and puke,

while before them some form of music plays.

I can't determine the reason for these things,

but - sure as ever - those advancing French

police will let me know. Scuttlebut. Cheaply

printed handbills, thin girls swirling in lace.

-

I came here for the desserts and the jelly.

Now, my face is filled and I want no more;

but the streets are clogged with fighting

and I cannot seem to get away. A faint

fog covers the alleys, their entrances

only marked by the curious yellow

signs denoting street and place.

-

So little like home is this.

I can't find a trace.