mz uncongeniality
That attitude of candor you affect
between your 7th cigarette
(no cinnamon on the latté, s'il vous plait)
and the fresh-coined imagery
with some crudité thrown in
a fuck, a cunt, an alcoholic
prostitute, your blond poetic
tresses swaying in the academic wind
the supercilious smirk which dots your "i"s
wherever you consider other's odd phrases
been there, done that, oh, so so tired phrases,
the modern blondest valkyrie
with cold bronze ovaries leaping from line
to epigram to bed
the scourge of lounge and poetry risqué
la belle dame sans merci
par excellence
