Lime demons are out dancing. Ochre footprints on the walls and ceiling.

This morning Kabuki & Noh. A singer flies

To his breakfast. He finds a note attached to his cereal box. A map drawn with an obvious error. A policeman

Sings to me. Shove off. You’re blocking my reading light. If anyone’s looking for me, I’ll be on

The greens. Horns and bells. Something about

The traffic signal was about to entrance the son

Of the French dairy farmer. The night stepped in. I got up out of my red chair.

I wrote down the hotel room number. Again. Charming.

A coup is put down. It is the softest of coups. Arms open

When you respond elaborately

To a pirate who poisons your blood with the same ink the dictators used to sign your death warrant.

Nothing. Peanuts were roasted beforehand.

I was a German pool hustler. Watching films about the sea. I fell asleep dancing.

I’m seeking help. I lean towards Italian ice cream.

Los Angeles’ hookers make lions roar. Or

Walking to breakfast a feeling came over me.

Breakfast on a moored yacht is for tobogganing to. Boy scouts

Who run their troop in a graceful imitation of the Paris Commune

Pour milk on their Special K. Why? The fencing instructor limps. I look at the ass

Of another and take note of the numerous similarities.

O. meets more hookers at Miss Tiki’s

Than any other house. We are better liked than the diplomat’s

Sons. On helium and anti-depressants I appear sick and broken.

Right this way, sir. Have a look at what I’ve made: A smokehouse.