Tuesday, March 3, 2009

she

sweet smell of a wasted tomorrow lingered in her air
as if phosphor was her only element
only fields of the here and now were her abode in a wooden earth
fields where the women told tales of burning irises
the mistress of blood
she weeps off all her vulnerability

smokey back alleys
slither under her skin
and make promises of a painless birth
she drinks the blindness and all the fallacies
the bleeding hours slip through her fingers
and fall like drops of green
the lampshades of her eyebrows
crowns the pages of every postmodern tale
hibiscus of her hips echo paradoxes
of subverted greek philosophies

now that you wrap your songs with tears
and paint pictures all afternoon
to hang upside down
you always have the boatman waiting for you
to ferry you across the petals of the stars
you pick one to pay him
but he will accept only the burning embers of your hair
and slay ten thousand firestorms
to lull you to sleep

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