BOUCHE FRANCAIS



make me a mayo
taste my eyeball
make me the mayor of little america
wyoming
i keep writing wyoming
but i don't like it here
i don't throw stones at glass bottles
drop bottles of cab on the street
damn cement
damn turned earth
this big block of in my way you damn mtns
keep me a fly up
& seat of the pants
eat onions out of yr hands
i am a flirt to this
i am astral weeks in yr ears
my jaw nerves are electrified
w/ poison or grapes or 3D palm trees
i jusss wanna chill yr thorax
taste sweat
stink like i can be magic
feel all of you on my back
& dance
& do the twist
& all these things my lips need