You paint your lips volcanic vermilion
seducing generously, whoever catches the eye.
You dole out cards to everyone you meet:
hollow promises, of three for the price of two
Hail Mary’s, for all you’re so called new found friends.
Always your derrière, on someone else’s lap
before burying your infamy in my shag
pile woollen mat.
We dance all night exchanging tongues,
beating time, to the lava lamps rhythmic pulse –
scorching our flesh on flesh, as we
violate the light.
My Angel – in a halo painted black, such
a fallen pale faced believer, absent from
her school of faith.
I could be tempted to say I love you, with a gun
held to my head.
Then what point, I stop to ask myself,
you are nothing
but a fast moving trajectory – forever on that
path: to a sinner’s way of life…!
Featured in the May Edition of barebacklit