I felt rooted by the coat-
tail of my collar. A
sting roughly eating
its way deep in path
of unwanted desire.

People pass glances
of hate towards those
whose mere looks are
innocent gaze. 'By
the power vested
in me I shall
pass to you the
utmost dirtiest
glance of all.'

Behind the mirror,
it could be sense
that there are
eyes deep in
concentration
at a pitiful face.

Behind those faces
there are stories
that can be told
of the history
of these faces.
But the eyes stand
out more powerful.

And here so triumphantly.
I stand amongst
these stone face
people. People of
no heart nor soul.

I am not like your old pair
of salted shoes - to throw
me away.

I BEG YOUR PARDON!

Just keep me where I am
and shine me.

Broken is me for being that fool.
Though your lies I believed.
A little white lie, then another.
Til I had a box full, for safekeeping.
The victim?

Nah. The ball was on your court
for so long, but now its crossed
over into mine. Hold your tongue!
Enough with the hot air. I knew
your game from the very start.

Game over! Please collect your
shoes and I'll see you on the other
side of that door. No tears, no crying!
I don't appreciate it. Save it for
the next clown to come along.

You've bedded everyone under
the sun, including David!
Foolish of me to believe that
you were just friends - *******!
Continue licking his candy cane
because I've closed up shop.

I have never had such a hard time
meeting anyone in my whole life.
Weeks...months... - Last week you
could only meet me at 11pm. Now
you have trouble meeting me at
9pm? You told me you are not
working. Last week you had a job,
but when I asked you about it, you
did not answer. Never ever had such
a huge problem in meeting anyone.
EVER! If you want to meet me fine.
But this is a lot of trouble, trying
to meet you. I am free weekends.
I do not work weekends. I am free
weekdays after 9pm. It's all up
to you what you want to do.

Feeling the duanting cry - aloof.
Like a violin with its haunting strings.
I was in a coma-like state of sleep.
The knock at the door.

The dead swan on the butcher's block.
The brilliant faces and signed will.
Borrowed cigarette in the back seat of
the black Mercedes-Benz with Bette Davis.

I stunned in my black suit and silk tie.
I noticed her blank stare from behind
those huge sunglasses. I sighed deeply -
high tailing my heels out the door.

The dead swan on the butcher's block.
I lingered in dismay (I felt paralyzed),
stroked by the rapture of the male swan.
I prayed. Bette Davis is dead.

The Bullfighter!
He is unfazed by the size of the beast.
Standing in position he crosses himself
and the beast is at the ready. The
sun is aglow and the women with
their white roses, and exposed fears.

How would Picasso paint this scene?
Dying in public view - the souls.
Clearly occupied by the fate of
instant glory or tragic goring.  The
war in the ring between man and
beast. The dance begins.