Pygmy Although I Am Not a Spy, Or The Nose

Pygmy, the inevitable spy, Bing “Pygmy.”

Now all in the window light like

Eugene Atget from France, Paris, Google-Bing “Eugene Atget Greatest Photographer Like

Larry Bird Ballplayer” (I be white, tee-hee).”

I am in to vitamins, oil pulling and amino acids.

Something eventually like my mad psychiatrist with her pills has

To cure me my errant fantasies about

27-year-old girls, probably pregnant and married, I don’t know.  My psychologist said thank God they are

Not 11, but still more drugs for

Your dilapidated brain organ with its plastic utensils deranged like King

Lear on the heath.  Bing “Shakespeare, Homosexuality, Heath.”

No one, no girls, except the Barbara Bush 59s and 62s

Will sit next to me at the relevant café hooch, although I

Am most relevant: I wear a hot-like-the-girls-here tweed hat from London England on this August day

In I-am-no-longer-prejudiced Birmingham, Alabam.  I conclude, like Socrates—Why doesn’t he

Have a first name?—that

This is because of the little blemish on my W. C. Fields

Nose.  God-damned 59, 27 in dilapidated brain, and happy, holy God,

Loving all powerful,

Puts a pimple most pathological

On my no-wonder-I-am-in-therapy,

Slightly-bent-to-the-left, tragic nose.