Aristocracy of Misfortune
Call my hair a brush,
recall that I am primitive
with a wide green streak.
Come by, I will fill my pipe,
I have words about great Musil.
A man without iron shoes
floats with a gay abandon
above monochrome, flat crowds.
But how I fall down, sad moon,
sad me, peppered with dreams demure.
Ambition writ large,
I await parties in Montmartre,
practice my condescension,
wheeze another time alone,
free to shed this husk, I keen.