I.
Luna use to walk this way, tails tripping in the tremulous air. Her feathered fedora askew, babbling under her faux cigaretta the lines of obscurity, pretentious and delicious, wafting in tango-trance with the smutten air.
II.
Luna use to walk this way, musk-stained teeth whistling in the straw gap. She twinkled and tapped and sobbed in histrionic stability. Her sister was a whore, and her cheetah legs ran with tracks of speed. Engaged to a lowbrow with kindly eyes and straggles of goat hair on his chin, she possessed him, not knowing his candle-scattered venue on the flickering screen of cyber regret, erotic neglect. {Haley knows this edition, hay-ward and leaf-blown with mottled mascara.} But this is all ante-incidental.
The rest is Luna.
III.
Luna use to walk this way, and touch me too. Quick grasp of forearms, the stifle of drench hand shake, the timid sun-burnt embrace of perfume. She detests perfume. Detests my perfume. Detests me. I dropped the bottle that night and fed the glass to the oil slick road, the sepulchre breathing in the redolence of it all.
Luna use to walk this way. No more, no more.
IV.
Fuck Lenore. I want Luna.
Fuck Ada. I want Luna.
Fuck Delilah. I want Luna.
Fuck Noelle. I want Luna.
V.
(But Luna fucks with her eyes closed and her lips parted and does not trifle a scream, but merely whispers in dreadlocks and Greenwich poetry and French imported coffee beans and Regina, Regina, Regina...I’d be the piano for the sake of caress. Mere fingers tips scathing my blisters, mere whispers in my carnal orifices. Her compositions flooding my pores.)
VI.
Luna use to walk this way, kiss my brow with reverie and tiptoe in mariposa tailcoat. Moth scale wings and vodka soaked dreams, and lies to all her allusions.
VII.
She knows, she knows. But I do not lust anymore.
Just remember.
Luna.
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