Paris-FES

Paris-Fes 

Twenty days a week I feel it, thus: so what?

Metallic; an electric bird.

Clouds of particle-birds, tasting fun.

A ransom, loosed, upon the spit.

Thus Zarathustra & Rami & father - so what?

Writing, frantic, on the floor; the nest a spit in charge of ice.

The howling deem this valley nice, and, taking up their homes in it,

Come cracking: sports, cracked, pits; dinner.

No more, we rule, it’s voluble to us; like strength maketh not a sad, sad man.

Fashion me, your choice, in orange… or more pits.

Pits I know well, like that time on London Bridge I only saw, not heard.

Imagine, make another cave, from raml, walls, its buttress: ‘lectricity!

That is so, so here’s the Seine,

Black as socks; that is, not black,

On the comme-il-faut jetty, you at my hip,

Who asked me nothing, expecting nothing: or is that a mirror?

It’s possible to see yourself in a lump of coal- not black. So what?

So what, so what, so what?