The Red Army and you are the diva of the whiskey pool table times ten. You said you knew what you were doing. We are so much past that, now. No one knows what they are doing. Not you. Not me. Not French TV. The Old Incarnation Ritual. And then some peyote with the poets, who are you this time, pills and spills, blings and things. The Red Army were the evil ones and I get it because someone is fucking me, and I was there that night you pierced your vagina with a silver ring. Glistens some say it’s been done with frost. At cost to dreams a net made of stinging nettles, baby, your balls were paved with dirt. We all knew what they so salubriously implied was nothing less than human hurt. The Red Army and you are the diva of the whiskey pool table times ten.