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5.viii.00
London
odd the way
descriptions change with cities
there must be an enormous exchange
system somewhere for citizens
La Gare Divine
votre name, m'sieur
stopped at customs
because of my employment status: un.
should I have put something ridiculous
like "poet"?
I have been working hard, I swear!
(burning the 3:00 battery)
and so it goes.
London
city of shopkeepers pubs
all of them full
millions of people here just
to drink the beer
upon arrival cast about for
an iced latte
concept still not understood in France
grateful to find Starbucks,
of all places
never thought to see that day
"iced latte, please,
and while you're at it,
a change of corporate policy?"
yesterday Pere Lachase cemetiere
had to pass up Chopin for Jim Morrison
whose grave is still robbed from, said
the guard. a picture for mon frere, then
on to Oscar Wilde, a tomb of lipprints
and folded notes. the great angelic
figure castrated, mantled elsewhere no doubt.
Gertrude Stein, whose grave should have been
kissed twice, Colette, and the master Proust.
Too many others to try and find
no time for death these days. the
Metro waits timely to cross back over.
Pere Lachase; lost among the tombstones
is to be lost in history, a most
exquisite place for a corpse to be
buried. monuments to the decomposed
(was that Chopin I heard? ha ha)
people this metropolis between 2 stops.
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