my candelabras are clandestine.
they hang from whining beams
in this derelict mansion, ready
for their close-ups, Mr. DeMille.
sometime you must visit.
we’ll waltz a bit like half-
cracked aristocrats, apres
Revolution, sans portfolio.
sagging splendor. tawdry times.
we'll alert the neighbors
about a shotgun marriage
of sweat and perfume, the
pretensions and the practicality
of self-taught lunacy, all decked
out in tuxedos and gowns bought
at flea markets. RSVP, or not.
circa 1994/2021
No comments:
Post a Comment