the platitudes of willful resemblance

part 3

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.