Our Man in Europe, dave delacroix... Who Pays the Ferryman...
dedicato. Tourists.
Bachannalia without End. A Song of Songs. Feasting. That UN-ending Kiss. Who pays the Ferryman...Here in this Brothel where we ply our Trade.
WHO, if I cried out would run me down in his 54-Speedster, what Red-Flag Starting-Gal would, sensing DANGER,
come in her Knickers-Here, in this Bordello where we ply our Trade! Step right UP!
Bachannalia without End, eternal THROMBOSIS, do U DO ME or do I DO U! Here!..in this Brothel, presently-virus-lacking Trade.
And the little BAMBI-s prance-meadow-thingy, no less or worse, flahgelants or EX-Anarchists who serve Tourists in Taormina, Mombasa, Coney Island or Brighton, these Brothels, this trade applies, croak-reptile eyelids-open. A Season Swahmi!
A Bachannalia without End. A Song of Songs. Social Cannibalism with a Napkin. NO Goodwill to All Men. No Love, no Harmony, Music, no Yin, mostly our HUNGER, our fear of Tomorrow or who PAYS the Ferryman, how DO we actualize Utopia here, here in this Brothel of Tourists, Strangers, where we ply our Trade...
c.2020. davedelacroix. the merry month of may, u.k.
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