the good girls gave in
to enfant terribles of late night
sophistication, movie drive-ins;
Caligulas of teenaged heterosexual addiction
homosexual a priori instinct.
ultramarine blues playing on in back room wasteland
tones, color, emotions of form.
she sips brandy and smokes cigars
a Cognac dipped haze, muted consideration
sand paper verses of strange fruit in sequined dresses.
we are the drunkards of brass rail barfly joints;
we celebrate half broken neon signs.
we are the soulful moth occupying
the half-light of fading streetlamps.
we are the desperate, misconceived.
we’ve shirts off in a moment of frenzy
and misaligned allusions to greatness
we are the bop shambala meditations
of time-space inequity.
and I cannot free you this,
heal you this.
but I am with you,
in a body beautiful,
shattered, crying out
on back porches, smoking, singing,
dancing you with crazed two-step and Spanish tango.
protean tongues lapping at the innocence of milk,
slingshot flames and firecracker wisdom
twisting our bodies around images
and starry night scenes
on freshly made beds too small for comfort.
sheathing my pen in high fidelity smiles,
we weep like soft-skulled school children
- aesthetes of playground bike rack bloody noses.