i am happy in the
i am happy in
i am happy. i slipaslide
over the scaly cobbles like
a clock tower
like the cathedral castle
kafka's gorgeous letters (to father/dear felice)
melt into goulash|i slurp a friendly
dinner|absinthe mindedly i dissolve
in coldwater/too turgid to see
a verminou creepy crawly. i am
no hungry artist

            eating his jewish
       birthhouse in catholic
      blackstone - k could've
been content in my limeshome.

i am so easily
a man: a continent from
constance/a me
tre from the tree 
trunks(an inch from ______s)
(a world from ameri
(a country
from france)

                           of all the things in all the world, i'm happy
                           that i'm me.

decrepit post-soviet
train stations

fibrous body hair
and not body hair
pressed into rat king

tanging like salt&
vinegar sweat smell

crowdsurfing(a carriage clutz)
like homelessness
in hungary.




i am a cluttering train
i am c
rowding, pouring onto
platforms in zagreb




petrich\or stinks of
mustard gas And you


are somme clay, clogging
like a boot Hoisted


from a Fishpond in a

you’ve beCwm a cesspo\ol
in europe, a mountain LLLake
from teccctonic political movement.

you scree All over me

xxx[in brussels on the water ta aquifer
i treatise the mainland i soak
into the groundwater like a
nerve agent
/a soviet

i loved your sanndy hair:::

:::you used to nearlywear it to
your shoulders - thicker
than syria, coarser thann 
you anti-cobainn, 
you fringe sitter.
you wondered if opiates would make you sleep better.
mum didn't.                   you chose acupunncture
to tap into northern rock and relieve the recession.
                                                  dad was redunndannt, you
                                 said it felt like being coerced into vodk
                                                                       a a
                            nd dribbled superinnjunctionn on peer-pressure
                                          after a couple of rounds of gulf
                                                            gusted into ta
tapping a tomahawk on the table
in mcdonnalds, with an illegal hangover,
you used to begrudgingly re-explainn

how it feels to kick a sixth former(
                                    the boxinngmann in the taxi, pulp 
                                    fictionn that you watched a few
                                    days earlier, like throwingasteam
)or why you listen to nnirvanna.

you were pre-june
before riot insecurity.

you were therrre before anyone had canncer.
you were therrre before i cut my haiir.

oh america,
how is the weather in france?
did you visit the eiffel tower
and get croissant on your lips?
i did not think you’d look
like this. oh la liberté, oh


how that copper must
feel pressed against her. is
freedom ever anything more
than to be free to love her?



oh america, my dear, all
things rust within a year.
i wish they’ll tarnish well
for you. promise you’ll
keep france near.


promise not to be a brut like me.


yours sincerely,



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