lying on a flattened mattress.
Soft, wet, moccasin eyes.
A pipe crackles, brown sugar,
There are no problems here you say.
Shadows as long as corridors
creep into sleep.
Lemon groves pierce the night,
bitter acrid sweetness,
sticky to the touch.
Beneath stars that barely wink,
Titans cold sky, your silver bits and straws.
Singing songs to a waning crowd,
cheap taffeta and linoleum floors.
You wouldn't look in a mirror
as time carved her lines
upon your face with
wicked sculptress hands of clay.
Now death fly's
on his winged chariot
towards your veins.
Soft poison,
receive the blow that dull thud
to send you soundless
to your bed.
Eternal eve of birth,
back to the fluid of woman,
O womb,
that fleshy tomb,
covered in cherry gloss kisses.
You can hide out in the desert
under the endless tide of vine,
but into Dante's inferno
you'll finally carry
that sacred chalice of wine.
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