if you ever get lonely, you just go to the record store and visit all of your friends...

on tenterhooks

she moved her fingers, spirituel,
intertwining fraying threads with fingers
and tying loose ends with thought. thinking
slowly, her fingers-flirting alabaster,
fumble; deliberately,
the fabric slips into the space
reigned by gravity.
there is a comfort in the governance,
a solace in constancy,
yet only another prison from which we seek liberty.
building castles in the sky;
head in clouds, mind in Phaeton flight.
she anneals her pain
but even imaginations kiln
cannot cauter the sanguinary truth
of her reality.

bête noire

wandering intoxicating intersections, an architect’s Garden, a serpentine playground,
she found prohibitions palisade oozing licentious idleness;
the Bar, its own place and in itself a church, devout.

and in the sanctuary of nocturnal gates,
she preyed in the languid air of adulterated grace.
she turned and faced Good judgment’s patrons,
and weighed upon the mind fixed by pious deception:

she was a woman, baroque, like empty pockets and wedding cake,
all distraction and coquetry,
an undulating facade hyperbolizing hypnagogic imagery,
a siren masked in silence, seducing sympathy.

a vessel of the drafted mien, constricted to the vein
shifting, shaping, round and up, her figure,
the outcome of a star-crossed war with chance, configured.

her daedal blueprint of genetic hard wiring, conspired.
shadowing the seraphic source of being, admired.
vain pain painted portraits of a distilled life
a wanton frieze measured, by compass and ruler.
trademark Instruments to sanctify grace laced with an Eve’s concupiscence.