MHz

The top is erect
like a Loxodonta tusk or the tip of
a pen.  A bastioned antenna that can broadcast
you into the 50s on Nostalgie or piss out the current
affairs on the Radio publique.  These sine waves whirl above
the smog and traffic like diamond dust sprinkled across a shipwrecked
ice cream float, so discordant yet dulcet in their dos-à-dos, minueting over
the quoins and the shingles that oscillate from vanilla to beige to vanilla.  Even
in the shards of sex shops and cobblestone the tendrils of the city are a chopped-up custard slice of brown and ivory puff pastry cream, dissolved chessman reflecting on an aqueous surface of pulverized sugar.  Who chopped off the heads of these bishops and squashed them into mille-feuilles?  From a prostitute’s parapet we can see the roads split off into twelve different directions,                    
each cleaved from their Neoclassical umbilical cords. 

In each direction past the fearful symmetry of Coca-Colas and Motorolas are boisterous arabesques that scream over the humdrum of sub-people stepping out of submarine-taxis like matryoshka dolls.  A slice of wedding cake they call the Sacre Coeur sits perched on one hill, guarded by blue horsemen who sleep on the job and a lady rained down with a cocktail parasol and an accordion, octaves out of tune.