For Ramona

Putting down words in a death-fearing fury
Ramona finally leaves sofa
her fishnets stained w/ mayonnaise
hair all wet of watermelons
fingers completely crooked
from holding a pen for all of her life
too tight
and completely wrong
lips still in vodka

a rented room in Paris
working class quarter
cold coffees & ashtrays
mess
Dream Machine in the corner
pics of Gandhi
useless bass guitar
remains

the house of the sunk cities legends
the French underwater bells...

this damned wind of her sorrowlust
points out her latest mandala:

Ramona wants to die fully
standard death don't turn her on
standard death's for pussies
Ramona whispers...

she moans then
and this begins
her karmic illusion
of a suffering circus
holding on to as many bullshits
as she likes and loves
completely

the room screams all Bibles and Vedas...
Ramona, I end here...

there's no way of showing you mercy
in these here
occurrences