A few lines for the red-haired singer

She drinks like she’s
sliding into a martini glass the size
of a swimming pool.
They say the past cannot be repeated,
yet the crowd finds her every time,
a canary in a menagerie
for the broken, the bacchanal. 
The piano weeps the notes on her face.
Her eyes, a green light clouded by
a fog of tears. Her dress is yellow like
money, like mansion.
Yellow like
decay, like a death-car.
There are golden girls,
endlessly desirable,
but she is merely a girl in gold,
tarnishing and tarnished.






Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback