Avalon

in the megachurch i’m 

welcomed by a set of petty

puffed up lips and the east

european charm of someone 

i know’s old nose 

they cavort and capitulate 

words i only vaguely 

know the meaning of 

like the french rap 

i listen to everyday that i pretend 

to know – touche pas! don’t touch! 

victory, victoire! – students

on the steps of republic palace 

a set of auto-tuned Africans 

with pretty lips people 

like to imitate 

a useless poet with

nothing to say