I.  Mademoiselle.

Cold through the beginning

she lay, smiling tender.

Soulmate drugs,

"Hindsight, etcetera,"

I nod,

try eye contact.

Deepness brightest first, words pulse and

breathe like coral, shudders soaking through

oesophagus. Red-black bulk slides down,

spent clouds and dark air.

I choke,

sulk joy.

She stares;

almonds creasing silver,

skin-deceiving feline.

It seems I make her laugh,

harmless and charming,

truth stored away between the days lived

absent, more than less.

She is in love,

she struggles out between kissed lips,

broken in half,  

dissolving faster.

Tempt me, why don't you,

lush black widow sun-spider?

Acid, choose me in safekeeping,

just to be in her blood

to buoy her up.

II.  Glass Slipper

Head on drums again,

rain right where he wishes

he spent time.  He justifies

staring with remembered things

and, impressed himself, considers

sidelong all the

hidden thoughts like meat.

While Cinderella with

split face is in the street, the morning

menace to Spring's child

eyes him bright; their skins flash,

and sit untouched.

She-cat mother, windows

tinted rose, and

she has doubts, he's sure, but should he

stay? He's

dead, he's like a proud man

in debt, and she is trouble

for the sad, she said.

Become what she has,

the whole of her hands on dirt,

the still ghost body

fading while thunder

rests, marshalling that

hope, pursuit in laughter of

the turned voyeur,

those slide eyes bruised;

she flinches, he postures

loose, his smoke

the butterflies she saw.

III.  OST

She finds the underside when she

looks up into me, curious

and smirking, shouted life spent fast

against the railings, furious

with passion and her vast unknown

exploits around the dark sundial,

obsession with and disregard

for living longer than the stars,

with their eternities to think;

She doesn't give a shit about

rewards, the drugs alone work out

much cheaper than the kitchen sink,

and it's the taking part that counts;

Mortician, weigh us by the ounce.

IV.  Out of the Bag

She saw butterflies stop by the

bookcase, in the smoke of our loose

postures.  He flinched. Her bruised eyes slide

onto the voyeur turned to use

of laughter in pursuit, best hope

that he can muster at rest in

the thunder while the fading out

of body ghost still smiles about

the dirt on her hands, the hole in

her tongue, what she has become; glad

to be speaking through reeds and sad

for the trouble she's been. Kohl on

her face, and she's proud like he's dead;

he'd stay there for good if she said

that he could, but he doubts that she

would, since she has roses, tipped by

her window.  Curled as a cat she

sits and flashes skins so bright eyed

child springs to mind, the menace of

the morning street, the white face spilt

with smoulders catching cinders while

she meets and holds his crooked smile

sidelong, never backing down.  He

considers himself impressed, and

wishes he'd forgotten to stand,

just this time, on solid ground. He

wishes he were right for once. Rain

drums on; it's in his head again.

V.  What's it got to do with you, Gene?

Like Pushkin sonnets,

lost glass slippers

left behind.

Cinderella with

split face,

Spring's child

bright; skins’ flesh,

untouched.

In the dull,

her bruised eyes slide

onto the fading out

of body ghost,

the dirt

her tongue, and

she is proud like

he is dead, and she is

trouble for the sad,

she said.

Curious, deafening life

spent furious, undersides’

unknown obsessions and

rewards; he justifies remembered

things like meat

with crooked smile backing down,  

the hope that

it is just in his head again.

Choke,

sulk.

Stare; silver

deceives the days lived

absent, more than less.

Window-tinted doubts are

dead, like proud men's

debt, and she is

trouble for the sad,

she said.

Struggled kiss

dissolving, tempted

by black widow acid sun's

safekeeping,

just to be

in her

blood, to buy

her.

Air dark,

clouds spent down

bulk black-red

oesophagus through soaking

shudders, coral

breath and pulse,

words, at first

brightest depth, and she is

trouble for the sad,

she said.

Lay, tender

whole ghost body

fading, thunder

laughter of

the bruised; they flinch

and posture

like smoke butterflies,

"Hindsight," she says,

I nod, " etcetera."