Thursday, March 6


This madness draws myrmidons,
Phantasmagorical faces flashing in, out
In, out, encrusted in popsicle gems.
Masks or muzzles . . . darkhearts or dreams?
Nothing’s what it seems.
Beats beyond hearts, blood rushing through
Corridors in skulls once lovely, now
Museums for the bizarre:
Bloated rosebuds,
Diamond-dust on gilt lids,
 Silken strand curtains,
Vermillion voices in velveteen ears. 
Denizens of the drastic
Glow in the decadence
Of the Venetian tile
Beneath the brilliance of
Incalculable crystals.

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