Foreign Agent (On Working Staycation)

Tourists of Babel atop Primrose
Hill selfie themselves, ahem-
selves begging pardon via a system
of smiling encryption. Backdropped by the awful
cityscape of inhabitable
vases & gimcrack gazillionaire ivy-
skiving skyescapers, towers
of Baby
-bel, other architectural handcreamery
floating over facade of a forest. But this is not the
brow of fashion for zeitgeist refugee l/ me. Cord
blood golem of a bard from Norwich, omitted
Ovid born in vital Tomis is 

singled out by Le Néant's absent lightening,
netted by hauntological fronds, despite
hiding out for a daytrip amid the gross neon light
source of this nation. Little do the Yentobs
jogging off wine pods
suspect
I'm Bat-Banksy! Little do the Chinese students imagine
the Gaetan Dugas of X-Men AIDS slinks nondescript
amongst them, l/ a pest
in the park full of posthumans.
Parallelweltseele on Shank's pony
has no impact really, a bookish Boney manqué.
An accretion of sensation by reading.  

Here is your mission should you come to accept
it: your own Joycean
torrent most neurotic will dieball you for an
émigré crispybit
in the corner of the lips of an otherwise fit
speed date.
So I hone the stream of lowselfesteem, project it & dieball
Primrose poseurs l/ a lykewake
lynx. A Keats-spore carrier of Kett's hate,
I'm twisted l/ a spirochete. Yet they know so little,
little do they know I'm conspicuous 
as Armageddon's last cop, w/ his phosphorous
badge, Mad Max panda, phasers on racist.

Conspicuous as a hyalescent mastodon 
or a blanched shadow,
a sadist's blush or a moonlit sumo.
Yet I could administer closet osteopathy
to my own assassin I am so sneaky.
I don't produce an uzi from a ukelele case
here upon this populous Primrose pisgah,
where the quidsinferno, Yentobopolitan 
lights (the gross neon 
light source of this nation), will later
glarebrush globalist lego Babylon-don (still quaint
to Shenzhen speedhead scholars). I exfiltrate:
spy sped from Mammon's village common. 

So mistigris melts back into the deck,
but not before I spray black alp bullets all
over this Faber-rattling montmartre of general
Camden fandom, vashion fictims & the Shenzhentobs,
all on their own undercover ops.
Fear not: provincial shard on my shoulder
is just
a neckmounted knifethrower
of contemptus (mah niche!) mundi, courageous glowers.
Well I shake my histological, microsociological fist,
my Norfolkian neepy neaf, at the nonesoblind as those
admiring the pythogenic yuppie skyline thru Primrose-
tinted specs.