STICK IT TO
MARLON BRANDO
Walk me along the fence, oh Nancy of
my dreaming - drop your whitened glove
in the churchyard's dumpy foyer. I'll never
pick it up again. Not now anyway - now,
when we are all immigrants and new travelers
in a land we cannot learn. I am new here
anyway, and you are as French as they come.
-
What language shall we both agree to speak,
for I certainly want you to understand me?
A laggard tongue of Rimini, or something
of a bastard Basque? It would not matter
anyway, I'll never understand your words.
Those big French cigarettes that have
ravaged your face, they make me want
to Euro-barf. Your lang'rous, dark cafe
nights, that espresso-sizzle in your eyes,
they attract but I am driven off. I do want
a roadmap of your body however, but
one written in a bumpy Braille that I
can touch and feel, to see what's real.
-
All this makes me crazy - those lips,
that lisp. Or is it just some crazy accent
from your existential inner Hell? Au revoir.
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