My mind deforms in Malimar
Where people bathe in caviar,
Inhaling hash from her cigar -
I bow to Runt, the three eyed Tsar
The captive kiss of Princess Mars,
Who speaks in tongues at seminars,
Burns red within her Blue Boudoir -
I writhe beneath her pale peignoir.
Her Maids tint lips with cinnabar,
Brew tea within a samovar
Secrete their heat within a jar -
I’m thirsting at the reservoir.
Her Genies play with gold dinars,
Disguise themselves in suits of tar,
Bedizen me in stares that mar -
I plea before the commissar.
At Princess’ neighbourhood bazaar,
Shades drape their dreams in wooden char
While shadows kneel at doors, ajar -
I’m waiting for the Avatar.
Her Merchants, panting pale Hussars,
Paint screens of broken VCR’s,
While strumming strings on warped sitars -
I’m sailing ships to Zanzibar.
Her Prophets sometimes cruise in cars,
Or while at each and every bar,
To talk of time and things bizarre -
I pass my pride for small pourboire.
Her Necromancers sprint and spar,
With tales of wisdom flung afar,
They’re numbered by the registrar -
I’m dangling from her handlebars.
While Princess conjures crude memoirs,
In never ending repertoires,
I always seem to think they’re ours -
That ‘hers’ and ‘mine’ are on a par
My Princess sometimes cuts and scars
While weaving webs of au revoirs -
I often wake to ask ‘who are
These Gods that sail the distant stars?’