Jun 2018
The feet of a skinny granny in her ripped seamed stockings are entrepreneurs
Making a killing in the cosmopolitan desert—
I think of love when I can't sleep with her bony arms around me,
What is it about Brigitte Bardot that makes her so big with Existentialists,
Is it that she's so mean and cranky, smoking two cigarettes at a time—
Or is that she's a skinny granny from the future
Gone back in time like a witch in a red string bikini—
Old mothers are thrown out of their apartments
By young son's new wives,
It happens all the time with Joan of Arc burning in the town square
Did her feet smell like overheated trucks on the highway in the summer of 1957,
And do they smell like that still, in a closed society everyone makes the ****—
1957 was the year of the renaissance; an abstract genius was born,
Some called him Jesus and he heralded a return to the Orthodoxy,
A revival of Byzantine style and Greek myth,
He brought back the Roman style of Monumentalism and the Greek style of reasoning,
He combined them to make tectonic plates with his name on them,
This Russian steward of all that was great in art and skinny jeans—
But the feel of the feet of a skinny granny rubbing his leg made him dream of clocks,
Cockroaches and cowed Puerto Rican women,
In the cellar room where he keeps his ant colony
A giant mother housefly has died and festers with maggots that feed,
Die and fester into more maggots, the swarm bigger then the room it's squeezed into
Even as it squeezes its way out in ripped stockings—
Skinny granny the Greek is more fun at parties,
New York City under her skinny feet while you and I were being born
The room stinking of ****, the window closed and shuttered,
The lamp broken, a bottle overturned, granny naked,
Her skinny naked feet practically down some young ****'s throat,
The poet's life is her tomorrow, no stranger to existentialism
The way only she could understand it in 1957,
The summer **** came on the mass market and made granny a star,
Now she's an entrepreneur in Abu Dhabi where she started as a stripper just for fun,
Burning down the houses of the holy as more strippers came—
Aunt Sally from Beirut came with her Amish husband admired for his beard—
I've thought this to myself once before upon seeing an Amish girl in a bikini,
I thought, how do her primal waters flow, discoverer of water pitch
In the long arms of the night with Brigitte Bardot's eyes
And skinny granny feet tasting like chocolate dipped in vanilla,
Don't ask her husband about the war of the bears, it leaves him sighing—
The wandering prophet arrived at the orange house and went inside,
The witch was waiting for him, a gypsy with skinny feet—
They were destined to meet, foretold by every constellation shattering starry collision
Her naked feet in espadrilles, so just what is it about Brigitte Bardot—
Making a killing in the cosmopolitan desert—
I think of love when I can't sleep with her bony arms around me,
What is it about Brigitte Bardot that makes her so big with Existentialists,
Is it that she's so mean and cranky, smoking two cigarettes at a time—
Or is that she's a skinny granny from the future
Gone back in time like a witch in a red string bikini—
Old mothers are thrown out of their apartments
By young son's new wives,
It happens all the time with Joan of Arc burning in the town square
Did her feet smell like overheated trucks on the highway in the summer of 1957,
And do they smell like that still, in a closed society everyone makes the ****—
1957 was the year of the renaissance; an abstract genius was born,
Some called him Jesus and he heralded a return to the Orthodoxy,
A revival of Byzantine style and Greek myth,
He brought back the Roman style of Monumentalism and the Greek style of reasoning,
He combined them to make tectonic plates with his name on them,
This Russian steward of all that was great in art and skinny jeans—
But the feel of the feet of a skinny granny rubbing his leg made him dream of clocks,
Cockroaches and cowed Puerto Rican women,
In the cellar room where he keeps his ant colony
A giant mother housefly has died and festers with maggots that feed,
Die and fester into more maggots, the swarm bigger then the room it's squeezed into
Even as it squeezes its way out in ripped stockings—
Skinny granny the Greek is more fun at parties,
New York City under her skinny feet while you and I were being born
The room stinking of ****, the window closed and shuttered,
The lamp broken, a bottle overturned, granny naked,
Her skinny naked feet practically down some young ****'s throat,
The poet's life is her tomorrow, no stranger to existentialism
The way only she could understand it in 1957,
The summer **** came on the mass market and made granny a star,
Now she's an entrepreneur in Abu Dhabi where she started as a stripper just for fun,
Burning down the houses of the holy as more strippers came—
Aunt Sally from Beirut came with her Amish husband admired for his beard—
I've thought this to myself once before upon seeing an Amish girl in a bikini,
I thought, how do her primal waters flow, discoverer of water pitch
In the long arms of the night with Brigitte Bardot's eyes
And skinny granny feet tasting like chocolate dipped in vanilla,
Don't ask her husband about the war of the bears, it leaves him sighing—
The wandering prophet arrived at the orange house and went inside,
The witch was waiting for him, a gypsy with skinny feet—
They were destined to meet, foretold by every constellation shattering starry collision
Her naked feet in espadrilles, so just what is it about Brigitte Bardot—
