Vices
White sheets will hang outside the
window
Subject myself to this rejection
Vanity and greed aside
For on this day there is no
protection.
Cotton caught frozen in the air
Hiding from bodies and words
For as much as I pretended not to,
I knew you were superior.
Velvet grass between my toes
I’ll set myself on fire
So you could see the beauty
In an ever burning liar.
The sun will sing me to sleep
And I’ll escape the dark
A battle finally won
I hope I left a mark.
_______________________________
Song
I found my muster station, sir.
My skin is patent leather.
The tourists are recidivists.
This calm is earthquake weather.
I’ve used up all the mulligans.
I’d kill to share a vice.
The youngster reads a yellowed Oui.
The socialite has lice.
The Europe trip I finally took
was rash and Polaroid,
was gilt, confit, and bathhouse
foam.
And I cannot avoid
the end: I will not die in Paris,
won’t rest for good behind
a painted mausoleum door.
The purser will not find
me mummified beneath your tulle,
and Paris will not burn.
Today is Thursday, so I’ll die.
Come help me pick my urn.
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