Mandemoiselle and her Madams

  insofaras
he can count his insignificants and
clutch his grey pupils
I can match his strikes
fire his liquid gels into buildings of canon
   but he is not expected to
nor too
he slicks in lingering possessives smelling happenstance
and the tornachs swirling his
   monopoly house of france and her bolsheviks
  but he is expected to clear trunks of successives
with smacks of yellow and brown
he thinks he is hotter than the tundra juggling canned bowels bawling
I think he needs to reassess the craft in trading arms
One for three and two are mine and five more for her
he sickens me
outwards as much as I can stone him
he throws marble along the skyscrapers
oh, but my successorship
oh, how I want my successorship
        to be
as salty

Author's Note

Fracture