Malimar

Inhaling, hushed, from hashed cigars my mind implodes in Malimar where Naiads bathe in caviar - I dream of dwarves and three-eyed tsars. The captive kiss of Princess Mars (who talks in tongues at seminars) burns red beyond Her blue boudoir - I writhe within Her pale peignoir. Her Maids gloss lips with cinnabar, bedizen cheeks in dusts that mar, serve teas beside the reservoir - I sip them from a samovar. Disguised in smoke and lamps of spar Her Genies gender gold dinars, evoking flames in ginger jars - I plea before the Commissar. At Princess’ neighbourhood bazaar, white shadows slip through doors ajar to drape my dreams in ash and char - I long await the Avatar. Her Merchants (preening, proud Hussars) paint pretty scenes on VCR’s while sailing ships to Zanzibar - I strum the strings of warped sitars. Her Prophets sometimes cruise in cars else while at each and every bar to speak of space and time bizarre - I pass my pride for small pourboires. Her Necromancers trace in tar tall tales of wisdom flung afar, transported by the Registrars - I hitchhike on their handlebars. Her seers conjure repertoires where She and I are on a par in infinite surreal memoirs - I sometimes sense the void is ours. My Princess never sees the scars cut by Her whispered “au revoirs” - I often wake to ask ‘who are these Gods that sail the distant stars?’