I remember
when I used to
feel cosmopolitan
drinking a Cosmopolitan,
in good company or, say,
a few stories up with a
blurry but blistering view
(squeezing out the tear-
drops). Such surreality
in his early works, yes?
This phenomenon is
something I tend to
place under a large
umbrella (which,
in French, is not
pamplemousse
but parapluie) and
call it all goth.
It’s about a quarter
to seven in the morning
(PST, not CEST [really?]),
and I lie here believing
finish equals awake; the end
comes when the eyes open
with something like intent.
For some godawful reason
I have an appointment with a
fitness instructor at 8am local.
Now I’m just a schlump with
cognizance,
painfully aware that this is not a
nightmare (within which I raise a limp-
wristed au revoir to mémoire:
a brief...recollection, yes,...
in which I am neither cosmo-
politan nor curmudgeon...).
