Tell me about the Ace of Wands! Tell me about the Ace of Wands!
This has been poorly imagined I admit: The sunny penthouse Open to the breeze which presses and sways through the sliding glass doors
Upturned champagne bottles set in buckets of melting ice A crystalline view of the Pacific Or dusky Vegas lights
Strewn silken sheets A **** carpet you can grab on to The myriad of variations under a rising Moon
Yet Leather and Ecstasy are no where to be seen. And though I wasn’t thinking of Sardinia or of the Amalfi That is a great idea
ROMP noun 1. a spell of rough, energetic play. 2. a farce.
Eventually (An earth-sign cusp is slow no matter how much air) Eventually creeping into my mind’s eye (Thank you Time) was my dodging of the slow-moving bullet Alas, the lumpy bed in Hollywood awaits with serviceable sheets Encased in variations on a theme of brown everything A soul death in faux wood paneling Someone else’s earring on a grubby carpet floor that offers you burns for your back that won’t heal so fast if that’s what you want There’s the opening of the door on the purring refrigerator to look at cold nothing And think nothing Cystitis is on its way And yes, Too much dust
Don’t get me wrong I have no real issues with dust I have stood Alone in the semi darkness before In such a living room Staring at this luminous particulate On album covers and in the glare of backlit windows Floating in a beam from a ceramic thrift store table-lamp
I was on my way to find the bathroom Where a pair of pink ******* lay drying in wait for me
Bachelor dust Is old I can write my name with my finger in that which rests upon the turntable’s hinged cover In case you don’t remember What they call me
As I’ve said I’ve got nothing against it Ask the dust Go ahead Ask it Resting quite comfortably on the bookshelves If there are bookshelves As if it had something to do. I ask it why?
my invading molecules subdivide and grow more comfortable
Dust? Why do I smell the stench of chaste virgins and ***? The intoxicating odor of foxed letters from an epistolary exchange regarding: One Fair Maiden and the Devilish Pursuits to Compromise Her Virtue? The Opinions and Observations of Fallen Fruit Here: The woman and her only true possession And Here: The sticky absconder who smells of fish. They meet. She blinks.
The dust replies It’s a simple plan: The Dear Lady is to be led Astray by pretty words and unspoken indiscretions her dowry in the end, useless She’ll be banished to the counties To be a governess or the Bored companion of the only living relative who will Admit her services Unpaid in silver coins He is Blind and his Cook has left Dyspeptic Disagreeable Cheap and Mean.
She is Ruined. Perhaps she will escape to Italy and die Alone in the sunshine.
The dust tells me another story The same century still This time, a miscreant princeling surrounded by Trifles Picking up one bob and then another Preoccupied by uselessness Perhaps a strawberry Perhaps more claret and his mistress’s left breast Tonight will be the scullery maid Who will lose more in the end Than she could ever possibly imagine Tossed out of the kitchens to Providence. God bless Her.
The dust tells me It’s mercantile, my dear It’s all transactional But look at me I’m here for a time but am easily Agitated and Airborne Aeolian driven Ever blossoming fugitive clouds of swirling devils Interstellar Reflection Nebulae As you can see I’m never in one place So I say keep it movin’.