Late clamours in and we spit on the fence, where
Mister Leach is banging Cary Grant, bunching their evening dresses
and a bird keeps saying 'Hobts ka Wohnung?'

Marianne is cleaning my stove and stole my ear
and I am crooning poems to cover up my shame and they all are like

O Marianne, why do you do what you do that way you're driving me
into the surroundings.

Sunday Morning, Kettwurst for all and small slops of the Sauce of East Berlin,
not quite jetset, more like dribbled all down the front. Hot tears and
silence except for the creak of the bathroom door. We know the pose
of that yucca and that is where it comes to me: 'ach'

Marianne is lifting the burners
I bite a bit off a pepperoni and hop
around howling like a green dog. Marianne scrubs. I say
'Marianne, you're insane,' Marianne says 'No I am volunteer.'
And I dance fantastic in my penguin livery
just for her right
The difference is a bike can't ride in sarcasm. I bang around
with my sides and fall from my Puch to the ground and lie
there for a while in my flagged breath like a puddle, my breath like a steady laugh

wipe me up, Marianne, and I'll write the most beautiful poems