Thursday, November 22, 2007



Rouge bruised cheeks
under jaundiced
streetlights assure 
treasures swept neath  
night's thick shade.

Pudenda slack and
pocked as spat-out
gum flutter like
dissipated butterflies
out of ferrous cocoons.


An army of heels
conduct the siren song.

The music of night, 
its rapturous throb,
excites the content bourgeois
as darling little babes 
slumber neath clean white sheets.

1 comment:

Beysshoes said...

David, I see you more clearly in your prose. You ... beyond poetry ... Indeed. xox