No Reception

Her single bouquet of white roses slowly expire, in a cheap crystal vase, atop a dust-laden bookshelf. Petals crying a lover’s lament are overheard by out-patients of Eros and other nameless receivers. She scrapes her flushed face against the claws of a stuccoed wall. Hidden cutlery shares space with buried photographs. Scores of broken nails and bleached hair follicles float so neatly in rusty brass tureens filled with tears of disgust. Cursing pervades heavy black corners, piercing ozone canvas – breaking codes of respected silence and calm. Desirable wishes remain empty and pitifully abandoned; a Levolor drawn across the sun’s eyes. She yelps a mournful vendetta against an elusive fate and a cheated Genesis. A regurgitated revenge - a counter play towards many things… Inclement weather and rain-slicked lanes speeding Hummers and Hennessey - chauffeurs and Chivas - as a limousine bids farewell to a church filled with ecstatic onlookers.