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French New Wave Cinema

Because I don’t care for Godard,
I am the loneliest poet. Go,
dart, to the heart of my beloved.

Tell him: we mythologize each
other when we’re apart. Tell
him: I’m a bit of a tweaker. No,

I don’t actually sleep with
deers out here. Check yo
navigational chart. In fact,

a perfectly respectable club jam
came on the radio today. Tell him:
I’m sorry for accidentally kicking him

in the gonads. It’s too bad, too,
I had imagined us on a gondola
in a scenic place funded carte blanche

with affection. Tell him: I don’t do
goulash without meat. Tell him: of my love
for gorgonzola cheese: garbanzos.

Tell him: of my objectionable
tartness. Don’t forget that part.
My goal is to go steady.

Although I’m rather cerebral,
I don’t know shit about
beer. The avant-garde won’t

protect me here. They’d dump
charred swiss chard on my head
&tc. If I need you, I know

you’d be available to hold my
mitten on a starry evening. Oh,
tell my love nothing. I’ll do it myself.