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.