I am a dry well.  Tangleweeds
grow in my gut; spin there, growing;
rise in my throat and choke me; and
spill from my mouth, stretching somewhere.
Humans pass by me, offer glances,
then rescind them.  The young ones--
the little ones--stare longest.
Though in all my imaginings
I have not quite felt like a person,
I know the question in their minds:
"Why is that thing still there?
Nobody uses it anymore."

12/3/12 16:15pm

The painted lady waiting in the wings
Now parts her lips to sing her lover's name;
She enters, arms spread outwards as she sings
Like some fantastic orchid made of flame.

She scatters fragrant petals in the hall
And yet more petals round the master bed
Her sweet song echoes like a linnet's call
Her swirling silks are edged with golden thread.

Then comes a telegram from overseas
To say her love will not return again
The lady falls, still singing, to her knees;
Her heartbeat speeds, like wings beating in vain.

Such is the way of love made through a lie;
Like chloroform, to **** a butterfly.