In the toffee-brown shade of candle wax light
The stone cloistered walls moist and dark
Silent whispers from the past
Sealed beneath Villiers Street
The lonely watery veins of your eyes
Reflected the space between you and I
Between the hard **** of our desires
And the soft recitals of our measured poise
Your hand loose in the vaulted light
The moment missed and the chance released
Like curling smoke drifting onto the street
Dispersing amongst the Embankment crowd
Silently gone like the cold passing gargle
Of the brown-black Thames
On its way to the sea.
It was that damn, no wax, light blue floor.
That was the last atrocity, the very last straw.
Spilled spoils, splattered toils, Roach Motel sadness.
Soilent dust collected from a kitchen cooking madness.
I said, "Sweetheart, it's over. No more. I am done."
"It's time for my geisha. To be born. To become."
Her books I discarded: Cosmo. and Real,
Obliterating all scuff marks of boots and high heels.
At the entrance to each room I posted a sign:
"NO SHOES SHALL BE WORN IN THIS HOUSE OF MINE!"
I said, "Sweetheart, it's over. No more. I am done."
"It's time for my geisha. To be born. To become."
I purchased and dressed her in costumes divine,
Of gold and spun silk, a traditional line.
She learned the art of walking on my back without a hitch.
She fed me like an emperor and scratched my every itch.
Until that rabid day I lost my lovely geisha ...
To a *****!
Now I'm rejected, neglected and shunned.
No wife. No geisha. No body. No sun.
I could have foretold the events you have read:
A carpet abused unweaves its thread.
Still, I must have my geisha --
To my grave I will tread....
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