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Strange change, indeed. Who am I to question?

I’ve come late to the gate; dank with withered


grass and shade. Debauchery is foreign

here and deprave one more forgotten word.


A touch of burlesque. Silent movies thrill.

Theda Bara’s voracious eyes promised


teeth in your flesh, nails down your back, the chill

of sharp ice countered with hot wax. Encrust


me. Trust me. Be my scab. I’ve yet to be

stared at the way she stared. Shadow and bow.


Gloom puts the rage into umbrage, anal

into bacchanal. I’ve followed many


wheel ruts through blown stone not once asking how,

searching for your sun’s night, your sparkle’s skull.