A valise without straps. A hole without a key. She had a German mouth, French ears, Russian ass. Cunt international. When the flag waved it was red all the way back to the throat. You entered on the Boulevard Jules-Ferry and came out at the Port de la Gillette. You dropped your sweetbreads into the tumbrels – red tumbrels with two wheels, naturally. At the confluence of the Our and Marne, where the water sluices through the dikes and lies like glass under the bridges.

Tropic of Cancer