her
name was lulu,
she didnt know why.
born too late for disco
she settled
for new wave
ambient and sad suburban ska
flew
out to paris thanks to a dead grandma
saw every museum and after a week
hadnt talked to one man.
twenty two and never been frenched
what sort of
vacation was this anyhow?
diego
caught one look at her crossing the seine
took the tiparillo out of his dirty
mouth
and no look flicked it off like a hair from his rod
as he prepared
to do it for the third time
that day
with the second girl.
lulu knew.
everyone knew.
he
brought her to his brothers flat
on the west bank
above a starbucks, put
in counting crows
she said are you serious?
took it out, clomped over to
the window,
and whipped it like a frisbee
nearly nailing a nigerian buying
a crepe.
she
couldnt get naked fast enough.
damn near fell over on diego and slid in
menace
to sobriety by ugly kid joe
isla vista she said and did things
to the
fortunate italian
that she had never done before
and he hadnt seen in months.