amphibi.us

Dirty, shaken, pimento-stuffed imagination stirred her ice crystal tongue,
sipping the idea of one of those Bud Stamper affairs;
spun fairy floss stockings, deep-rooted Mencken martinis;
smokey humid nights tickled all dewy with unspoken juniper berry
poltergeists;
not the kind of love that kills poetry–
where everyone is happy and just wants to fuck. No,
this tiffin would release her words from the bounds of nobility
with a garnered dusting of fine unsweetened innagadadavida translucence;
the kind of words mistaken for revelation;
tympanum to conscience noir, all patchy in discount gloss,
hiding behind it, (there),
an ugly eyesore buzzing with flies.

© B. W. McGrory, 2010