poem: almost empty cafe with ugly people

I remember reading — Raskolnikov paused at his university,
his old life spired against the clouds; he was thinking like
Nikolai not thinking and rushing charge-line
against napeleon; he was thinking, the old me the old
me the old me — he sat in a cafe with
no faces, the women sleeping under the tables and men writing
poetry on their naked
legs. i drink black coffee and live in Paris / i am
delusional. i don’t finish books, men,
i don’t bother to start even
the //that girl// morning routine, face creams in circular acids
over places with je ne sais quois — that nothing nowhere
american vibe, bleeding into your sink.

hey raskolnikov i don’t give a fuck
that you killed two more war casualties / women
i will take your body
in this field like a madwoman let’s leave
the happy ending for the lovers
the nikolais and maryas, we can rot
for free.


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