I would make sweaty broth of the fountain of youth.
My avid lips too avid, busy on my face lined by chemtrails
& diarrhea of the mouth & smoking. Would bitches be
allowed into the fountain at all? I could sneak in on your shoulder
if not, or start a protest & a march & a war,
uncivil barbarian ham-fisting the gate.
I know that route,
learned the truth of humans in suburbs. It goes like this:
don’t look at yourself at all. Looking is the work
of plastic surgeons and stranger-men,
in that gaze denied, no tu es pour moi la plus belle.