Arturo Desimone

Yet Another Poem Against Amsterdam

First the shadow of that busybody,
androgynous maven mayor Femke Kok
flitting by on her bicycle,
along the esplanades, graffiti only
in invisible ink her first decree,
and now, Quarantine — not without explanations,
from robotic mouths, drone moon

Guillotine slides down along still canals
of the quadrant, where the geese drift
pretending to be swans but fart more often:
district of nectars
where the men paraded, in search of a lost
India flower, lurching
from British jets just cancelled without refund.

Before the Quarantine,
it was almost Florentine:
harlots kept shop in the red-to-
vermilion neon-lined windows,
Alumni of Law, economics
or Art History, faculties
of Bucharest and of Sofia,
goods with degrees, to illumine
seasonal drunks, passersby goaded.

Schools of clownfish swimming, fleeting
between matrix corals–
I fume against the drone,
which interrupts lullaby
against the decadence
such as that of realtors,
the madame-pimp Leandro,
or the daughter of senile Hans
who runs the big hash-dens.

Unlike her,
I shy
from honest arbeit,
and yet I want the very best
gelato in my cone,
and am simply here
for the welfare, art my alibi,
take the money and run
until flight:
welfare-rat with wings,
straddle-riding Pegasus,
No soy de aquí ni soy de allá
through the bleakest Northern skies astreak
the crown-shaped red bloom at each
gun-rocked temple
of my satyr’s head,
gunflowers of kamikaze’s widow’s
sweet origami.
the art-world can suck
my proverbial olive-oiled cock,
dreamt of by the wife of Alexander.

Suspicious of the innovation of the bicycle,
though I once scoured these streets
looking for the young Jean Genet, and almost ignoring
all the Sultan’s girls, (they halt my shrugs
though I won’t pay)
of the unfortunate two and a half conditions,
I by far prefer women—
the wheel without spokes, please.

Me gusta cuando callas: this has become heresy
of the warlock, thanks to a censorious lot,
led by the mavens.
If I see the shaved head of an art world imp
near my crotch, I will kick his fashion-sharpened skull
away, down the spiral staircase,
they don’t know was invented by
Despite degrees,
There is a whole lot
they don’t know

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