When you go to Paris

it is like Paris.

Notre Dame

feels like there it is.

Each quiche you fork

is in the context

of quiche but you

are a nihilist, so.

You say saucisson like you mean it.

Your postcards

say you are horny

and in great shape, voila.

Mon Dieu, Paris is in France!

All the cigarettes everywhere

are pronounced cigarettes

and the s is silently

punishing schoolboy.

Paris is a red ball.

The trains will strike tomorrow.

When you blow smoke

from your nose and mouth

a little socialist

with a fierce resolve

to improve the lives

of others jumps out.

But I am in Sweden,

in a dark part of eternity,

building a tent out of tent parts.