Dear Tourists

Dear Tourists, You can grope for moist souvenirs in the basement, but you'll need patience because nobody down there will warn you about the floor. In the street you'll find squirrels; on my scalp, bumps. If you want proof for the folks back home that you've surged like a seagull, print your name and number in the bathroom. If you want a seagull for a pet, talk to my therapist. If you find her, tell me where she lives, and where her daughter goes to school. If you want a piece of me, suck my dick. If you want to sell trips to the general public, take my pulse or my coffee-table picture-books about Italy. If there's a house in the trees, throw up a hammer and see what falls down. The bleeding kid isn't the best prize and you can't return it, so be careful where you walk when you've had a few. If there's a nettle between your shoulder blades and you're having trouble breathing, tell the teacher, but don't tell her it was me cause it wasn't. I was just watching, maybe even laughing at your gurgling sounds. That incident belongs to somebody else's amusement park. I don't ever want to see it again on this side of the blunt tracks.