dead cigarette poised on the window
the brass dirty latch
There are stars hoisted
on the rusty chains of sin
and a Radio station
hisses faint music
through a missing tooth

crave through me sultry
wire
this damned winter desire
cascades boldly slowly
past the windows tall
and aged

and wrapped in cheetah
print cheap robe is my road
queen
thirsty and tossing
locked in a wasteland
of chills
dilated corridors
of more
the history of a smile
pulling in her words
as she sits bolt uprght
the dark raven hair
spilling

"Ifucking told you"

eases back down on
the raw unsheathed
pillows

the glittering mercurial
paste of heat climbing
the walls
like quiet cats claws

leaning in the chair
the television glow
a weight of a thirty eight
pressed on my business

watching the light from
the hall flood in on our
carpet

flood in the ghosts
arriving like the shiny tide
goosebumps on a barren
rib ridge running from the
jump of a hipbone
to the clavicle sweet
arch dusted with the
dissaray of sleep

a pariah of stars
like a mantilla
of prayer
arrives beyond the
witching hour

like her calves twitch
smooth and muscled
lean and milk white

and the safety's off
and the stations
gonna go the whole
full hundred miles
before we both
touch down

the sacred nocturne
LahLah bend
awake to grab
the day

and begin
again