0. Le Fol

0. Le Fol

Deteriorating amalgam mirrors steeped mercury in milky
Drops that appeared to your latter face, with predawn purple
Allergic shiners, like a trail of spit running down—It was my foolish
Reflection, where a peristaltic chair rail emphasized the nonpareil
Of each breast, of two sleepers otherwise scouring markets for lettuce—
Seated at a conspicuous brunch table in view of anemones and mourning

Bride flowers—Or frozen in the middle of a strange stroll mourning
The red earth that dusts, and its manual marks on the Sea of Milk—
And it does not tell a story, the room in which it will be hung. Beds of wilted lettuce,
Like discharged mirror backing, issue the following demands—Stretch that purple
Ground of the photo booth, play with a margin of error reinforcing the nonpareil—
Not the dependence on it. A carpet fringe’s tablet made itself felt; feeling foolish,

Except for two spirals of peeled lemon floating in a drink—Foolishly,
Or not, the eye has difficulty following it—Twilight opposes mourning.
Burning debris of this great firework; unheard in any stadium, are nonpareil,
Noctilucent clouds still lighting the mesopause—Compunction of milky
Streaks of midsummer meteorites, where the upper atmosphere is coolest; purple,
Furred, ductwork one did not want to escape, but for the bagged lettuce

Of a late afternoon lunch—After corrosive plasters of overdressed lettuce—

To drift home, and set off arrays of mercury vapor floodlights, or foolish
Grins from passersby—We spend the night pinioned underneath a purple;
Rather aubergine, duvet, without any sense of frost, or fierce act of love—Until morning,
The sacred lotus heats up temperate ponds. Deploring direct action, the milky
Mercury lamps, as if hideous on purpose, rinse the interdenominational space—Nonpareil

Capers comprise a sauce to follow the blue slime coat fixed in court-bouillon—The nonpareil
Meal is an extension of the laboratory, whose difficult execution and crisp lettuce
Presentation, upholds the fetish of eating—I shirk these rituals of assent; awake in a milky,
Timeless aquarium—It gives me more pleasure than telling it, which evaporates foolishly

From the bloodstream—The average human hyperventilates to reach orgasm, to mourn
Through searchlights, screamed abuse, or Sunday errands in the retail park—Purple

Violets, they could have been, in a lattice organization on a girl’s school lawn—Or purple
Gram stain left in the dropdown sink—Would I want this for my children, the nonpareil

Mistaken for commonplace? Having yet to reach an age when friendship is precious, do I mourn
Dinner-party culture? For me, they are occasion to discuss anal bleach, over a plate of lettuce.

Worse than mere carnality is achieving detachment, in which case I lift a streaming milky
Face, and try to behave over anecdotes of spiny dye-murex, or when milk overfills a foolishly

Designed coffee cup—Desiring freedom from all the cant and community, the foolish purple
Eye shades connoting depth, mourning lettuce by air-freight, is no good reason to throw oneself
In front of a train—You are nonpareil—I consider milky beads, like quicksilver, on deck concrete.