The crowd prances by;
some walk the tight rope;
others smile like French clowns.
One man’s frown deserves a call to 911;
one girl’s body is hot enough to combust.
Great displays of displeasure or delight
catch one’s eye. There is enough
hair on the women to confuse them with puma.
Some of the men, hairless, look like
patients in hospice. Others, handsome,
cultivate the look of ex-cons.
The ink spots on their bodies
do not so much decorate as distract,
like graffiti. It’s not mutilation but,
like vandalism, should be against the law.
Some of the people are said to drink
their own piss. Others like to masturbate
on the opposite sex.
(SHE’s just entered, still in hat and coat.)
You’re not nearly as tall as I had imagined.
Larry’s always liked big things: St. Bernard, Cathedrals, winter grapefruit. Do you…
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