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),



and sure enough,



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.



her shoulders

were two

opposing factions,


by the same

internal mechanisms,


given life

by the singular

spring of nature;

their violence



by the blades

they always keep

beneath them.


The small of her back

was some poor Atlantis;

glittered with a siren

song so tempting


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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