deepundergroundpoetry.com

Bright Lights

The dim gas lights within the assumed facade of the
brownstone. The first-floor tinted windows are
covered in ivy. Plush carpet and a mahogany bar. No
neon lights or pickpockets to steal one's fantasies
and memories from within and warm as a Jacuzzi. �
"Bright lights big city, gone to my baby's head I'd
tried to tell the woman, but she don't believe a word
I said ..." With a poetic addiction to one's fetish of
polite conversations and a slight fragrance of amor�.
Raptured by what the average denizens consider
macabre but many live on a sliding scale. One's
nightmare may be another one's lasagna.