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" Tortured metaphors
                           spilling from tequila lips,
                  t i p t o e  on my pulse ~
             breaking in an arced smile
                        of the featherless eclipse,
        where I waltz as a secluded steel-shine,
                        sobered  s o f t l y 
                    by the taste of satanic stars..."

  I'm the loss of a leaf
   from gold-dew aspens,
rippling upon
      turquoise typewriters, 
  where drunk fingertips dance. 
    Turning to ashes,
  my heart m e l t s 
  as a metallic grenade,
  and no philosopher's stone
    ever reverberating
            in its silver-winged silence. 
    Seeking shelter from smoldering seas, 
 I curl up in the womb of a guardian willow ~
       she's a weeping angel of n e v e r l a n d,
   with an ornamented garland 
   of guns and roses,
   enveloping me in the corpse of sunset. 

    Plunging from diamond cobwebs
  into isles of champagne,
like a dynamite dove bloodthirsty for sun,
    I l u r k along reefs
         studded with rhinestones, unfurling –
                      lotus manuscripts
    as poetic pearls s l i p and t w i r l,
               snorkeling in an obsidian oasis. 

     I miss being 
 a purple-whisper prophecy,
   threaded in fractured letters,
for now, my ink b l e e d s
         in the marrow of moon,
   where an alchemy is lost and found...
  In the chronicles of carnelian clemency
              and supernova sorcery, 
    I've seen arctic assonances
        hibernating 
  in the throats of those, 
     holding lethal jewels
           as a nightingale's neon noose. 

      So, if my soul is an opal widow
  of your thistle-light affection,
      a verse romanticised
  will be my crystal coffin,
                      and in the caricatures
                of kohl and karma,
    our silent soliloquy 
                 shall delicately be shifted. 

  Surfing in the splitting s i n s 
                               of a salty saviour, 
      this whiskey damsel
           shall evermore remain
                           a scentless phrase,
          scrapped by pencilled brush-strokes,
                           i n v i s i b l e 
                    in our paper-cut destiny...
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