Tonight when the
wild flowers scream
at the matador moon
and the Bull dies alone
amongst black poppies
young girls will stand
in front of mirrors
with sad china doll smiles
wishing they were thinner
tattoos of broken hearts
on the edge of their hips
she only shivers
when she is touched
in that special place
she only tells you this
when she is lonely
the stars fade away
like old love letters
intangible no longer loved
and middle aged men
are always threatening
you with leaving
perhaps to a city like Paris
where the women know
how to please them
the night is restless
like a thousand
Butterflies in Spring
and in that dark room  
you are still sleeping
like something forgotten
like a silhouette of stone...
Clay.M