Sang Bleu.

do you know right, I had this vision,
or fantasy, when I was twenty one—

it was june; I remember it,
walking home in coventry one night
and I thought of what it would be
like to be introduced at his assistant.

perhaps it would be at a swanky venue
full of famous people; well,
not famous famous, but you know,
cool people; he would say:

this is my assistant,

and I would shake hands; be welcomed
or papped, or eat fancy foods, blend in
amongst fashionable, nimble,
tattooed bodies;

proper blue-bloods, you know?

french men do kiss cheek to cheek,
me beside them, young and meek—

business plans in bodens (or bodeans?)
in foreign tongue, amongst one outsider
looking in, by brunch and coffee cups;

jon jon is as kind as photos, I remember—
something something about spaces; 
money talks in francine tense tones, till

we leave, chatting on kingsland: rick ross,
and beth ditto (perhaps that was the day).