[Written on 3/6/2017]
some eyes made for a poor adventure.
his did. perhaps.
no scrap of an argentine promise, none but the screw-and-bolt carcass of
a cimmerian centipede—
laid in the worst shade of death.
“who said eyes were divine in the heat of love
they played a game of mirror, mirror
each time proximity proved
beyond an opiate eidolon (guzzling fire in the water—
heroisms, metagraphic hooks- –
storebought sleights to make up for nihil.
( how’d they. how’d they
turn to blooming tether in the noir-factor
I took your naught for a nectar
( by some sorcerous error; a chant in murky sugars-deep- –
why’d the lull of your wasteland
key itself in?
can’t you see that
all I want is mirrors—
for my falsehood sun.