Adam

I cook like Marcel Duchamp, and walk with weary gait, scent of my cologne is damp, bring cognac to my table, send dishes by measured paces, feed my gorgon frame, am not someone to look upon, swaying like a knave, singing out what I’ve done, unshaven waiters, in this cafe', often watch me faint, women before me unmoved, with buttered hair on trains, talk of what’s above, creating is what I crave, kitchens are lonely places, my uncertain forays, begin from the urinal, that's really my fame, this place a caravan, to carry my name.