Davide

I cook like Marcel Duchamp, and walk with weary gait, scent of my cologne is damp, bring cognac to my station, send dishes by measured paces, feed my broken frame, am not someone to look upon, swaying like a knave, singing what I’ve done, unshaven waiters, in this cafe', often see my hands shake, women before me unmoved, with buttered hair on trains, talk of what’s above , painting is what i crave, museums are lonely places, my uncertain forays, begin from this place, that really is my fame, this café’ only a caravan, to carry my name.