How To Win At Age of Empires and/or How To Travel Around Europe With A Vest and An Umbrella


Am a hotel not a motel man,
because the road is too long
for an uncomfortable bed,
in those small motel, asylum sheds
that sit with a lonesome grin upon their face
whilst we battle for miles and pace
and with haste around our veins-
we reach Paris at four.

For what? To see but a beacon on the
skyline
and the smell of bread and buttered goods
that leak from the holy shrines, speaking to
us in smell not sound.
They come and go, murmuring odes of beauty southern sweet Bordeaux.

Holy, holy, holy, holy, holy, holy
fat and sugar that sits on our hearts
and weighs us down
and slows us down
and makes us down
because we’ll die in the ground,
eventually from Lucifer’s croissant
or from the prince of darkness and
his sweet pain au chocolat. 
They come and go, murmuring odes of beauty southern sweet Bordeaux.

The tempter lures the bad men in-
a plague of pickpocket professionals
circle and play with us, under beacon and light
fire and the electric night:
that descends over us, the San Fran Fog for the Europeans.
Park life hides the honest man
sleeping straight backed, poor and stinking
on Parisian perches high above the torrent of dead
leaves swirling up around their bags- stuffed
with the stolen misfortunes
and broken illusions of dreams and hallucinations
they once had as a teenager.
They come and go, murmuring odes of beauty southern sweet Bordeaux.


Remember that my book is still on sale here, http://tinyurl.com/btq9brw. First person to buy and review it shall get the only hard copy of the collection!Prostitutes and New York: The Chasm Between Experience and Cold Feet