Jezebel's been skeletonizing True Crime--
plethoric to the degree of Richard Ramirez'
breath, a fellow halitosis sufferer.
especially noting the forensics of love, as if she
could inspire such extremes.
a crone's rotative head, turning the screws of
invisibility--hypervigilant of a kind of danger that
won't even consider her.
there's a poet Jezebel reads in that manner--a darkly
handsome force at her throat, willing to lay it all down.
poems like a shadow's outer space--right there, yet
coming after her.
Jezebel's delusiveness  hurls moondust at this poet's
absence--generous enough to have pleasured her.
as since her deterioration expects the worst, so the poet
writes her off as dead--which she literalizes, poor thing.