The clown she looks up at me from
across the pseudo-empty bar,
80’s music striping and stripping the air between us.
Her white face like a ghost’s,
rowing through time, rowing back to life.
The red hearts painted on her cheeks
beat with vitality and frivolous charm,
The dimensions that I cling to
seem so pale, so fragile and old.
I lick her cheek from across the room,
can feel her heart’s pulse on my tongue.
Her beauty spills off of her
and into every half-empty glass.
her black-painted eyes run a hand
through my hair and become my bliss.
And in those sepia-toned disks
I see us together…
Waltzing under the rounded yellow moon,
pulling threads from each others’ breath,
we spin twisted trees from my thought,
gobble apples that sprout from her laugh.
The wind drags fingertips like leaves
whilst her lips,
a pair of sepia insects
walk a slow gate across my cheek.
Her body a smear of painted naked against me
she whispers into my ear
“I will ride you like death rides the night.
I will push my hearts into your mouth
with my fingers
until you can consume no more.
I will cradle your naked body
with my birds’ arms,
will cover you with scarlet feathers
’til your only choices
are to drown or fly.”
Her eyes unfold,
splashing into her drink.
In one thousand lives
we breathe each other inside out,
make love with swords,
unravel the moon
and pick our teeth with the suns’ rays.
The world caters to us,
the clown and I,
moving between us like trade ships
being hunted by greedy privateers.
But all the sepia worlds –
left sloshing around in my glass
like wet dreams.
So many realities all stacked between us,
an imperfect hand of cards,
I at this side of the bar,
and her, the clown, at the other.