I rush out into the street to be a stylish bag
Venus in escrow plus a pink
` landscape spooned on toast
I also rush out to be a turd
fan letters may be addressed to Kay Gabriel
c/o Turd Terrace
Brooklyn, New York
No autographs, please,
I am only a famous bust!
"depicting Joan Jett or Rimbaud"
gossip the museum plaques, then break for lunch.
The controversy renders friendships null and void,
has resulted in a divorce, may yet bankrupt modern art
I do it for my fans, I'll kiss my chips now
I'll touch all my stuff before they bring me to heel
Riding shotgun on the millennium seaboard
I busted the Atlantic, oops
Double-parked in Sarnia, Barrie, Kitchener-Waterloo
townships of destiny
and not a parkade between them
a "multistory parking garage" Canadian English hiccups
international stars of stage and finance
Margaret, Justin, Elizabeth
toothful bank towers oh! big boys!
hot pink armpits of Canada, you're number one
Dear vexatious reader:
I am not a Margaret or a rounded vowel
I'm a handsome idiot of Paradise
bearing good news:
I love pink
I parked my car in that colour
Lady, I'm not Rimbaud, that's my roommate
Mon ami, Rimbaud he creams the sofa bed in pink jorts
Cranks the AC to 68 and puts on the National
Rimbaud smells of warm pineapple
Heads out to shows with the gas on
clucks the stove, soiled in bright blue hair.
His rent check bounces—
"Dad moved some cash around
I'll make up for it fries on me"
Rimbaud sprawls in a diner booth making face
masks out of napkins and vinegar
I order the promised fries and a very magenta slaw
Malibu Arthur gets onion rings, extra pickles, a french dip
sliced and the crusts cut off
warbles behind his condiment sheets like a soggy ghost
When he sticks to the couch we take him to the cleaners
Rimbaud comes back like a two-for-one deal squeak! SQUEAK!
"Oh, Arthur" he combs detergent out of his hair
Laundry day! start strong and hit the suds
the city pinches its bladder shut till early Sat-
urday A.M. then lets er rip con brio
Oh it's metaphysical!
my boobs boing across Flatbush like two well-coiled mattresses
I forget which one is Kelsey Grammar
from up here the boroughs look like a pothos plant
it rains on the skylight a sarabande pathétique in D
Miss Long Nineteenth Century walks her poets on the beach
stuffs them in with her brights and shut the door
between loads my roommate has lots to say
"Goodnight, Aesthetic Education"
O Captain, my Commuter Rail
Under pressure in the OR they rewire my head
- left handed
- and never have to go back to Canada