Trinkets..
gas-lights, red scarves,
pyrotechniques on a blooming navel..
vacillating breath on beloved's lips,
woozy feet lunatics groping through the black tunnel..
The moping city rubs powder on its warts and moles..
reluctantly covering exposed pores.
Games begin..
draperies
unsheathed urchin
masquerade
ravished rose
yellow fog
silent sweat-drops
peeling
pouring in
blink
the castle crumble to a maze of desires.
Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate.
You wash the dirt of your feet, the muck in your eyes
every morning you perform the ritual sacrifice.
Pretty lass, you can never cajole
the mirror laughing at the rancid soul.
Seekers rummage through left-overs
picking into the entrails
of wasted conversations, unfinished sentences,
unanswered questions..
While the morning fastens his button
as the city retires, rubbing its red eyes...
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