Drunk with diligence, the deed was done-I had overlooked betrayal germinating before an onslaught of duplicitous gestures.

Les anges

 

Inebriated with beer and Satie’s Nocturnes. Broken back against the wall-cowboy hat cocked. I smell of cigarettes and three dying Gymnopédies. It’s impossible to hide Bukowski’s elephantine steps from the black eyes in these melodies.

 

Sei Gnossiennes

 

And the words they come, from old ghosts; they want resurrection-now that I am without commitment, without compromise, traipsing now with turpitude amid the many ways failure and the future find a modicum of meaning.

 

Tre Sarabandes

 

Love did lance its language lightly.  Polyglottal madman feigning mediocrity with her. And her. And her. Trite the way a Steinbach sounds on marbled floor, as she clicks and clacks heeled in haughty foreign furs.  This Maestro never slumbers. With crescendos and flatulence alike midthunder. My bed is quiet now. I fell in love with love, the core of what it was and was supposed to be. You fell away from all you used to say, from all the silly ways we played, the soft patter of your seething tears, from joy, from yearn, from greed.

 

 

The velvet gentlemen hammers with deciduous covering of a gnarled antler, another riff-another age where attention spans are better suited than the page.

 

Je  te veux

folié à deux

 

je t’aime plus

 

tu perds, je gagne

 

∞