Cigarettes

A foreign mind takes over the sea
When four walls have the absence of bodies.
But wait! Quick farce is the alibi
Disguised as a sweet talking lullaby
Laced with hope when reality is shoddy.

She collects the memories in a heart shaped box
Gently teased open the butterflies fly free
But rough and ragged - not impressive enough for he:
Cheap impersonator a la John Knox!

The man in question was quite the sinner;
Cutting and slicing every bulbous womb in the vicinity
It's safe to say he certainly was no beginner.

Strands of hair are all that's left
In the deceptive bed of lust and sweat.

A cause for confusion when your heart's up for prostitution.
 

Dance of the devil.

The bar begins with a Treble Clef,
Gunshot
And half-hearted smiles. B Flat:
Black, smooth, polished, outstanding.

I am a valued member of society
No rings on my fingers and my heart worn on my sleeve. Or my star.
The tail end of a walther p38 strikes my
Vertebrae. gutter.
A moonlight sonata could lead to a homicidal

Prominade lit by the said evil, all seeing mistress.
She illuminates the sky for murderers - Kapos; the fools.
Where is our lord now? A sentimental
Golden watch is sold for nourishment; weakly believed to be ours.

There is a butcher,
There is a baker
There is a candle stick maker,
An accountant, a mother,
A child.

That small, sooty
Bristle would disappear with a swipe of a sharp blade,
As would my spark if i would dare. What would Paapa say to that?

A pre-developed organism crawls up the nose of a
9-year old boy. Did he miss his train?

My satin, My rings, My dolls, My dresses, My jewels,
 My hair..
My Piano...
My chords. The soft, innocent, melodic,
Menacing, violent,
Destructive
Chords.

C Sharp silver pins of hatred.
B flat, still, unmoving corpses of the
sweet lady who gifted me a rose, the grocery shop owner,
And my Paapa.

His white and seemingly unwashed, perfect hair. The tweed jacket and corduroys. His love for beetroot, and the way I would chortle when his lips stained red.
Life would be lovely if it ended with courage.

He...

He stands, not too far from the house.
The house with red walls.
His shoes: black and shiny. His legs
Are thin. He enjoys looking in the mirror; seeing
His body from another person’s perspective. A Mandolin
Plays. He is of foreign stature.

Dark, rugged, tall.
A lot of women appreciate his art. He
Cares not. He hates their delicate features. He
Hates their breasts. Animal-like lumps, representing unweaned
Infants. He could not say this out loud. His fear is rejection.
This fiasco could ruin him..

He likes to drink; the ones that cause you to wince. Real men
Resent ice. “No rocks please, Madam.”
He likes nothing more than when the women leave for tea and all
The men drink and converse. He was often the one
Left to carry Domingo home – maybe this way he
Can gather some truth.

He adores his drawings. He wondered if anyone
Saw them the same way he did. Or if his cultivated, obscure
Vision changed the meaning of everything.
He hopes so. He feels his poetic and artistic soul could be terminal.
Forever. Deemed to be forgotten. Or remembered. He
Longs for the touch of his effeminate hands,

Holding the paintbrush as it glides across the blank canvas. If
Only. They talk. They jibe! They ride, they run, they swim,
They dance…                              They kiss.. His Hair
Feels smooth as the waves brushing against the gentle sand; millions
Of years of grinding. They laugh, they touch,
They Fall.

They fall
They fall.
Loud footsteps, Angered voices; Batons, hats, belts! Not one
But two, three, ten.
He struggles in dishabille.
The crowd: they laugh. They throw.

He burns, Oh! How his heart is like the broken tree. He wilts.
Salty clear tears
Drop.
They count 5..
He looks up in terror
4..

He sees a comforting eye. 3..
The swift turn of a tailored jacket
2..
Crestfallen.
1..
Click.