Beauty travel involves troubled pathways.
I caught its innovator, who said to me:
‘Meet my desperation.’
On the overpass of overweight,
in the wind of the fan of reckless appendages,
under the shower of lolling pores,
just lounging around in organized clotting.
I enjoyed playing the cut off leg, and getting
pwned by my dream job – holding out for misery,
I guess, my prank on the genius who came up with
the model of that perfect laudable delectable
bedside table which IN FACT may surpass Gatsby –
master of old sneakers, deliverer of fans
to their handsomer richer flirtier selves,
architect of their declining interest in
him, screwer of the banana smoothie.
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