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Cigarette genie from lamp unstamped. All oil painting and panting. My own private gestures made manic by moving milliseconds faster. Crowned hills, no frills, garden thrills. Wet hands, more glass than sand. Living like a floor, creaking and cold. Wondrous maw of many mouthed murmurs. A voice taught to murder. A mother still smothered by mistakes. Shining diamonds that cut these mirrors down to size. Four of everything, early to interrupt our own inner dialogues. Dark judging done below the blankets. Persevered, purchased, played like a winning hand. Screaming like a tea kettle. Accidental arguments, pens and pride. As we emptied our pockets of old wounds and noisy weapons. Always washing it down with unstrung, unsung tongues. Swallowed, knotted at the neck, ties that listen to your untended hearts like spies. Now it’s time for a comeback - a resurrection of stained glass morals, sidewalk chalk virtues. Camp like a vampire listening to the night fight itself invisible. is there enough blood to make it worthwhile? measured like a model, cupped like cream. grass poured green, a new portrait, ten days old. keep it, they say. don’t throw it away. not yet.
