Confetti petals crisping in the palms of an oyster-grey day,
workers and sentinels emerge from concealment—
crouching their toil as they translate relics the old-fashioned way—
a marching b(r)and—confections wrapped in corporate colours complementing
flesh of scorched clay—everyone’s an hour marking the progress of celestial skirts;
nodding as they drape dusk’s chastity like dusty curtains over life’s matinée.
Bullet-proof asses in descent damn decency with their choreographed exposé;
thick-wristed gentlemen shake-off sobriety, whistling with conviction channeled entirely
from rippling rivers waving tongues dip into before spitting sobriquets.
Uncertain portions of pain play like photos of reigning queens-of-heaven; indiscretion
draggin’ their sweating heels down immerses negatives in their purses—acid blondes cursing
the service—canonized harlots sticking johns while they urgently prey—their squalor hollers, “observe us!”
An un-event full of non-issues—children capitalizing on parental drought—drinking sin out
of discarded (t)issues—abused (s)elves selling self-worth for less—dance their danger
uncovered and confess what cannot be resisted: double-fisted dough teased from razing
spirits makes a killing of ego twice as fulfilling—love and death only reap the willing.