i imagine death with a book in reading: half tucked into my head and
thus half of me exposed, perhaps i too half tucked in it
standing as a miniature on a bookshelf - a talking bookmark.
but all pomp on napoleon’s grand theme for the toilet flush of power -
‘ha ha! prussia down the loo! prussia traced back to lunacy!’
that’s what the little colonel said - although he probably... ah never mind.
so when this grenoble girl told me i should get out a guilt spanker
and do 1 2 3 with it on my forehead, i said: polonaise! polonaise!
duchy of warsaw! d’uh! (which made the map of europe
look just like it was when the bubonic plague roamed the continent.)
well i forgive her, she was, after all, a psychology mermaid who’d
drag every man down for a kiss in the depths that would
be a kiss of the men’s lips being bitten off,
perhaps one man would then joke with her in comic book narrative
(bubbles of course) - how’s my todkopf lächeln?
she would then sit on the couch and allow me to psychoanalyse
her wish for feet -
and i’d end with the diagnosis - ‘too many men in your unconscious,
you ate too many and they’re speaking from your belly
as cancan dancers stomping a morse code of pitfalls into thoughts
wishing you grazed with lamb and men who ******* their heads
into “nothing” with lambdas.’
or that’s what comes to mind, in the least, from a passage
of canto **, read slowly, on the throne of thrones -
concerning the rewards of the rowers - not for oxford or for
cambridge - but for odysseus.