Valerie's violet morning apparel,
silken nightgown and sable camisole folded
neatly upon antique dresser-drawers of
velour curtained bedroom upholstery.
Brass-studded chambers of dawn's illustrious fornication,
"If you lie to me tonight, lover, it will be cuz I asked you to"
supple frame and rose-smitten cheeks flushed to
incarnate hues of pallid complexion.
Sullenly reposed upon a gilded antique love-seat beneath
marmoreal pillars of an olde colonial sun-room
bright rays of golden sun illuminate afternoon shadows
along wool damasked counters of opaque varnish.
Tranquil rays of warm iridescence dally gently into Victorian windows
of eighth-story colonnades,
below a towering browned arcade of weathered architecture,
off shallow eastern shorelines
luminous cycles of evening commenced
sudden gales of rain to sweep in from the north
onto our vast Atlantic seaboard.
there is hope for us, enduring frigid tempests of inhumane meteorology, sacrificing tell-tale legacies for drunken midnight promenades homeward
sidling up early April pavements, to dingy upstairs catacombs
lit by candlelight one Thursday night
lighting cigarette filters and chucking 'em
out your attic window onto
gritty neighborhood streets
you and your sisters clothes
me, I don't need a rosary
I got nothing
in my head
that's mine
You and I, commiserating by residential mantels: whilst
prudently nurturing embryonic tombs of daffodils plucked on high deserted plains, springing enchanted seasons into sulfuric vistas of arboreal phosphorescence, bucolic burials between dusk's scythe-like cusp in nineteenth-century penitence. An epileptic fog has been lifted. Ascended, reversed, and transcended:
shimmering white sheathes of
hypnotic gardens below moonlit eclipses of emerald effluent .
Blue-lemon moon and red-yellow sun spread infernal shadows windward
down county freeways of broken photography as
suburban anecdotes resound avuncularly in
local barroom vernacular
years ago
auburn boughs enveloped our teenage courtyard
we frolicked lucidly around prime-time perimeters,
skinning our shins and feebly falling down
inevitable rabbit holes of young adulthood
On the weekends, we'd lift our sunday prayers to callous pastimes of weekday futility,
It is the evening of our lives
perishing upon earthly chambers of carnal adaptations,
lastly you my love can't hear the
peal of god's perpetual bell thrust
through my chest imploding and
destroying what I called my love
and my life of
course
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