Untitled.

[ConeyIslandOfTheMind]

A small thread of smoke drifted from the lit end of her cigarette.
I wondered why there were lipstick stains on her collar.
Drops of wine had condensed right below her lip,
As if her saliva were made of grape's blood, and she had drooled it,
Slowly, and intentionally. She spoke with thick lips and heavy eyes,
Slowly, and intentionally. A drawl, like cattle across the lamplight.
She spoke of why the sun turns things brown, but so does the rain,
And why the split ends of long hair crawl up to the scalp like spiders.
I wanted the seven leaves that she held in her hand, and the glass
orb below her belt, her long French nose sniffing the air for flesh
of the senses. She took my hands in her mottled, veiny own
And let the tears of cowhide drop onto the marble floors of her
Laundry room. She read there, read crippled writers that would never
scratch ink upon paper again, and she dealt out more dryer sheets
Than cards. Her name is plastered in the tabloids, in the dime papers
That only bored rich women read, and her sobs fill the sky with
Every turn of the page.