CITY OF ANGELS

c 1979 Tristan Winter

 

 

I lick the street. I fly through the trees. I buy what I want, and for free at that. I hide things under statues in the park. The rain maintains me, the snow sustains me. I get mail from all around the world. Policemen shrivel under my derision, bank windows tremble at my approach. I fry a few engineers. All over the city women walk by. Women walk by with their hair swept up, necks exposed to oriental pleasures. No animal fails to recognize me and children abandon themselves to my tales. Doors fly open before me. I walk across the lake. I take it with me wherever I wish, even up to my penthouse apartment, where I throw it into the street below. I blow up as many buildings as possible. I steal baloney sandwiches from god. I appear on stage as Siberia. I can laugh louder than the awful music. I stand up for all men as we demand every second drink free, and more interesting diseases. I leap from the mountain, over and over. Everybody trades genitals. A little girl goes pee for me, laughing and spraying everyone in sight, particularly her immediate family. Because of this the factories are shut down. We go to the races and eat steaming horses. We ride the jockeys. We suck each others’ navels. Everyone yells I love you at the same time for once, but no one understands Japanese, so we all dance instead. Those who can’t dance just lie down and wiggle. Now we know what we came to discover. My sister the wind, my brother the earth. Now we know what we came to discover. Stars fall at our feet. They are sweet but insoluble. We suck them for eternity, we count them to infinity. We slide over glass roofs, dine on first editions, and zip around in little marzipan cars. No one lives alone. Death is banished to the Marx Brothers’ films, and when you die you get to be Chico, Harpo or Groucho. No one sleeps alone. No one sleeps. No one sleeps. I leap from the mountain, over and over.