an occasional poem on taking the bus to paris, and other nautical expressions; or, who am i? what are my gleanings?

i’m glad i brought my umbrella.
jew-drops,
they appear
in the morning
with a little pot of gold.
no!
i don’t want a loan.
you’re going to charge me interest;
it’s unnatural – usury.
i want a crab-queen of Europe
“vivat regina”. click-click. scuttle-scuttle.
i wouldn’t like to live in there.
i know they’re houses. i saw someone living in one.
maybe they’re people factories.
is that sustainable?
sustain me.

lipstick and whiskey?
no. champagne.
i don’t do sincerity.
all this you’re like a ceiling crap.
‘i wonder how my phone would sound in the sea’
what comes next – temporary like achilles?
look at their faces. they look impassive.
we need to get out, fit, for tomorrow night.
laptop poem drizzle smashed into your face: the name of art, dear.

2000 mArques
i don’t write poetry. poetry finds me.
aire Fauquemaumberges Lillet Auchel
hello sailor, flat on its back, I’ll vote for you, supine or maybe porcine. prostrate? cancer?
champagne and charcoal blinis
a muse or amusement?
feel the fertility of this blank space

















who am i?
when the evening’s spread out against the sky
like a patient sustainably developed on a table
in a strange country.
we don’t write anything,
we never write anything,
the text, like black soil, writes us
smothered, write words
planting, digging words
earth-black of the soil fertile 
and dearth (civil).

we are improvising,
we can’t do anything but improvise muffled.

what you said under your breath -
I thought it was a line from Milton;
I think we’re cooking.
we’re cooking, apparently,
these vibrating vegetables.

vaunting aloud, sautéed with deep despair, 
quoth satan, the kitchen exploding in boiling fat,
the stems of these vibrating vegetables flying everywhere,
'I left without my hat'.