Heavenly Angels and Midnight parlor devils

                                                Broad St./ Orange Line
                                           
                                             It was in the pale, quaint, and fragile morning hours about ten years ago, strolling home from the South Philly Orange Line. My solitary footpath crossed over raw metal sewage drains. In frail innocence of sprinkling mayflies in an early moist Springtime chivalry. The transit misdemeanor police spoke to me in loose tongue tied riddles regarding regional railway lines and interchangeable commerce deadlines. The work establishment I frequented was dark and petty. I dressed in faded black trousers and v-neck Gap t-shirts. I made it known to the common pedestrian population the folly of primitive measures placed upon sordid vulnerable bloodstream acquaintances. My behavior was extreme, notable at best.
                                     What took place was a sordid debit miscommunication between the Heavenly Angels and midnight parlor devils. For those of you who never paid the legal piper. Truth remains frightening and surreal. City row house out of focus upon returning home. Rent papers and expired PECO bills piled on the kitchen table below translucent silver metallic light fixtures, I was a depraved man in need of a bed. Coming to consciousness, I couldn't believe my actions the night before, I would have to take full responsibility for the transactions that transpired.
                                  
                                           The Heavenly Angels
             
                                          The ocean level rising and filled with mercury, mercy mercy me Angelica. Give them wings to hover upon shimmering cloud formations. Where candid fluorescent light pounces between skyline intervals. Rub me down aromatic lotion,  align the pleasure center with  scented oils. Distant continents lie firmly distinct between crimson eyebrows. There is natural beauty here, remove your make-up. Stencil the outlines that float grimly above the ground below. Surface lips press through daytime fantasy, they only last in the piping hot shower, or in the slumber of coiled evanescent sleep. 
                                        Sisters converse with me over enigmatic reality, the tea we pour is lukewarm at best darling. Mother taught us forgiveness parallel to Jesus. Sunday school we kneel the crucifix, surrounding our gold-plated necklaces. Righteous with diligent justification, I am threatened with absurd maladjusted discontent. I, a man who needed to be forgiven, starting anew among the pioneer village county association. Rural, I lie fixed upon bloodline formalities, Rescue me with silhouetted street undertones. Her milk white thighs resembled the residential Anti-Christ. Foreboding, the promiscuous terrain. Leave me to my own devices in the fenced in plaza. Some debts remain unpaid, the township alliance would see to it, I wouldn't jeopardize their political standards.
                                       Drunken, let me telephone Martha, my chest glazed in sea like perspiration. Some things are better left unsaid, the Heavenly Angels made a living out of temptation, lies and poetry..