Ode To Tropical Skiing

After breakfast in the Philippines
I take a bath
& it’s a total f*cking gas

Enjoy the ice cream, Gerald,
the sun sparkling
on its white frostiness
is the closest you’ll ever get to St Moritz
racing up the tiny snow fields on the side of a pill
as beside you the young girl’s
mirrored goggles reflect all Switzerland
like a chocolate box at the speed of sound
& like the ashtray he/she you & it
are a total f*cking gas

Asleep in
the milk bars
daylight saving annuls our tuxedo
& happy to breathe again
like a revived dance craze
we gulp fresh air, our speeches to the telephone
so various,
so beautiful—
who loves at close range
like they do thru a tube?
& when the sun polishes the wires gold then invisible
a million cheer-up telegrams
collapse in the snow
while Mandy & I have a glass of Coca-Cola
as we fly past the moon &
after the piano goes to sleep in our arms
we wake up
& it’s a total f*cking gas
Was that a baby
or a shirt factory?
no one can tell in this weather, for tho
the tropics are slowly drifting apart & a
vicious sludge blurs
the green banks of the river, a chalet
drifts thru the novella where I compare thee
to a surfboard lost in Peru,
flotsam like a crate of strong liquor
that addles our skis
& when they bump
it’s a total f*cking gas