Mirage

Recycled sonnets sing…company: out-of-tune violins.

Ah, poets vomiting hysterics. Desperate, vacillating.

A woman sits, face, cut in half by the moon; her drapes flow, scuttling, spiders on the wooden reflections of her feet.
Besides a pool of smoke, she sits, kissing illusion; her befriended beast knots slivers of dawn into bouquets of red and pink. 

‘How darling you are, my sweet!’ Her maid, a fat stump of ingratitude. Sweat drips down her swollen breasts; hair, swept with greedy fists, clouds her eyes, reduced to darkened slits.

‘You think?’ The smoke starts a fit of coughing in her soul.

‘My dear! My dearest! Let me drape your hair with gold, and find the finest of loves for your desire!’ Her smile, specked with black; she reaches with oily fingers to the parched angel sitting by the fumes. 

And now! Now the wretched hand, with greasy pores, sweeps the immobile cheek.
Ah, the burn! The stump cringes away, her eyes popping with jealousy and fury. Her hand, turned to sand, drifts, curling in the smoke.

She grunts, and scuttles to the disdain of shadows. The cockroach disappears, twisting her injured tentacle, rolling on her pathetic side, a mass of oily repulsion.

And still, the woman sits. Her head droops, loosing, for a second, the hope of sound.

Weep. For weep you must. Eternity dies on the horizon.