One Night Stand

March 23, 2018

The swing set of her eyes

were the swirling

starless centers

of galaxies;

 

an immaculate void,

a violin

without a violinist.

 

Below sat blood

red tulips, churning

(glib and moist),

contemplating

bloom,

and sure enough,

spread.

 

Where would be a neck

stood a grumpy

old curmudgeon,

a walking stick,

too many years

wandering the foothills

for sane conversation.

 

The condor

of her collarbone

shone a glow

-in-the-dark pentagram,

a guiding light

for those

long dark, those

 

who so long for God

they got lost,

and in so losing

came to a similar

enough conclusion.

 

Likewise

her shoulders

were two

opposing factions,

ambulated

by the same

internal mechanisms,

 

given life

by the singular

spring of nature;

their violence

evidenced

 

by the blades

they always keep

beneath them.

 

The small of her back

was some poor Atlantis;

glittered with a siren

song so tempting

God

would do us

a favor to keep her lost

 

to history, to let

only insane pilgrims

pin a Mecca

to her beauty.

 

Beside lay hips

like chubby kings,

with woeful rule to all they see.

 

Her legs but minarets

reversed, calling all

to come bow

before her;

 

the Corinthian

capital another set

of lips—

churning (glib

and moist),

 

contemplating bloom,

and sure enough,

spread, into

an immaculate void—

 

Stupid conqueror

that I am,

 

I went in.

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