palace




A Town Called China


Enter a Chinese pastry with caution. Do not approach Flo with terror, Dalaii Lamas make cute winter coats. If you see a wet parallel universe, just pope it right in. The reason they're having a jihad is because they're really mohammad about what you did. But two prongs don't make me white. And two tongues don't make you christ. Cigarette lighter. Saw it slide into the bronze sky like a pair of red stilettos in a cold movie. I could drown in your venetian blinds, or fight.

Turn turn turn the buckle, the fever of milky porcupine-stew, swamping the virgin envelope I nearly sleep with, just in time abortions, waiting for the pick-up truck called frostbite. Alice says, let's shed some music on this farmyard of silver medallions, but my ankles are soap in a turtle's mouth.

A green hospital in quicksand grins at six plastic bags and a baseball player calls it home. Calling home is a triple by-pass, then a sharp left into cynicism. And reverse-charges are how they bowled raw gold from Jamaica in the first place

Jamaica? No, she came of her own accord. I swear officer, I hardly crushed her. Don't rape me, I just give here. Oh, says Alice, that sounds like the truth accordion to carp. Then enter the dragon. Still, accordions on pasta sauce, with the blessing of a million frogs. I love here rent-free. And as they say in the pelican-brothels of my rubberised Beijing, twin towers don't make a fight.


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