You can grope for moist souvenirs in the basement,
but you’ll need patience
because nobody down there will warn you about the floor.
In the street you’ll find squirrels; on my scalp, bumps.
If you want proof for the folks back home that you’ve surged
like a seagull, print your name and number in the bathroom.
If you want a seagull for a pet, talk to my therapist.
If you find her, tell me where she lives, and where her daughter
goes to school. If you want a piece of me, suck my dick.
If you want to sell trips to the general public, take my pulse
or my coffee-table picture-books about Italy.
If there’s a house in the trees, throw up a hammer
and see what falls down. The bleeding kid isn’t
the best prize and you can’t return it, so be careful where
you walk when you’ve had a few.
If there’s a nettle between your shoulder blades
and you’re having trouble breathing, tell the teacher,
but don’t tell her it was me cause it wasn’t.
I was just watching, maybe even laughing at your gurgling sounds.
That incident belongs to somebody else’s amusement park.
I don’t ever want to see it again on this side of the blunt tracks.