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Painted Ladies
These many, steady galleries,
marred by passing favor, fancy;
stupid whims and painted skin.
The subjects there so caught in ruin
of self and all surroundings,
consuming like a whining vortex.
Where has all awareness gone?
Abandoned for a sense of doting,
a tripping over one's own feet -
to fall to knees and beg for her
and they and their and nothing ever.
Their burning flesh with senseless symbols,
foreign language words devoid
of languid truth, lucid dreams,
and the making of profundity.
And they weigh themselves with such decor
that screams abrupt to passers-by,
begging for a wandered eye
to linger on their highs and lows,
their curvy, sultry aperture,
their mimic of the many constant.
What's the point of all pursuit?
Where are all their invites sent?
Against the rigid stones of cores?
To the tidal pull of fronts?
A steady sip and an easy breath,
intoxicants all scant and tethered
to hands of sweat and hesitant
men who cannot be another.
