Well I fucked my best friend's girl   
And the blank expression on his 
Which was the tract in   
the Rhineland   
on the banks of the 
our cabin in the mist. Frank T.'s   in a
coma suffering from a new   
drowning in the pool out back   the 
bicycles are hot and the cafe   
owner's searching for the crystal   
lamplighter burning dresses are   
swept into the hidden cleavage    
steaming bridge over the water   
broken france   is i
s burning books how   outrageous and   
our letters crossed  on the way 
it took three  days for the mail   
And our deaths were   pine forests 
pummeled ashes  and the fop's a quiet loss   
an american car   
shattered nothing in the   stain of the eyes d
irty queen   don't jimmy me, jules your foolish hat'll   
get us 
killed   I'm in the rocking chair with zola   
and brother's late for   
he meeting in a past life sancho P   

The East Village Poetry Web
Ryan Whyte