Maintenant j'ouvre la fenêtre et une mouche la chambre entre
Ni la moche ni l'italienne ne peut être trouvée plus à son centre

This place with its wood and its shingles, this place
with birdshit splattered down the bricks
This place with drunken girls screaming Meat Loaf lyrics
and behaving like abject pricks

Maintenant je suis bien loin
But yet oh so close
Cerca de la criatura del lago
Not Iago as has been previously claimed

Humming, screeching, gurgling, squeaking
Not unlike Barbie's mom on a Thursday night
It goes through the motions of accomplishing something
When really it is advancing its own sinister agenda
An agenda so sinister that you'd name it Dexter if you could.
You can't.

Then, as the disruptive forces destabilize reality, like
they destabilize the rhyme and scansion and hyperlinklessness
of
This Poem

Then, like
Mike Stone
expressing
gratitude,
like something demanding its $3.50 (but oh, oh, it does not want its $3.50; it wants
something far more visceral and ephemeral), it makes a simple statement.

F01.

Natuurlijk.