Because the Night Belongs to Lust

Black shirt moon unbuttons
Hooks of the gallows,
Dreamers tighten the noose

Taut is the breath of night-rope walker,
Arched Angels bend arrows towards
          Moonbeams,
                                                                      Quiver o’ mouths
                               Lip-synch spectral
                                                                              Voices to split her atom

Guttering flame of red negligee,
Dark roses to midnight burst open
As fireweed splays woodland.

Rhythm-mortis of ephemeral hands
Plug ~ spark ~ crackle the sockets.
Words so urgent they could break necks,
Preying mantis dangle from lightbulbs.

Pearled puddles shape the streets’ emptiness:
On nights like these
The edges are no longer parallel.
Bruised hearts braise the alleys.

Midnight fairground silhouettes
Fandango waltzers across satin walls,
Rolling coasts into deepest trench;
Sinking as Cohen song drifting o’er cliff.

In Autumn poiesis, old rope turns to rust
Gravediggers construct cradles from
Leaves washed down by the rain.
Survival are the unwritten stanzas
Underneath bodies-worn beds.

Her wardrobe becomes mausoleum
Of alizarin pouts and leather boots.
Too beautiful to surrender to anything,
But the whitewashed flight of light
Creeping betwixt slats of her sta(i)rcase.