French accent as thick and sweet as an eclaire.
Rag tag and bright are warm clothes you wear.
I see oceans and Rivera skies in your blue hair.
High fashion, cool, something French New Wave.
You and me, dining and dancing, no world to save.
I would be your man, and I would always be brave.
Sharing a cigarette under a black umbrella, content.
Walking hand in hand, not caring were the night went.
I dream these things, of love of you; Dreams don’t repent.
France Gall, chirpy and naïve, plays on my headphones.
In passing we are friends, and I put that flesh on bones.
Dreams are the river washing smooth discontented stones.
Venus still shines bright as the dawn rises,
just one more Morningstar I don’t need now.
She is still in my head from closing time,
long pale red hair, crowning her sweet head.
Washing a beer glass with a rag, singing low,
a distracted beauty, as I left to face the night again.
Venus, shining bright, I have seemed to guide
the days of my life by her whims, reckless.
Morningstar told me it would bring freedom,
but it all just ended up ashes, maybe pretty words.
I think of that pale red hair, and her soft song,
and wonder if love can come from sentiment and lust.
Backyard of a friends modest little place, a fairie tree,
sitting in his little girl’s tree house, cursing Venus, but I followed.
Cursing Morningstar, but I followed him too, greedy for fix,
greedy for a touch, greedy for the fire that warms only once.
Try not to sleep again, make the day something, something good.
Dream of that pale red hair, but maybe sentiment and lust only fail.
Space between the air.
Beyond seeing, but not feeling,
I know she watches.
A face behind the eyes
Of a swimsuit model’s poster,
Tempting me to leave.
The sex and the sorrow,
The promise of a mystery
Beyond what I see.
The promise that she
Can look like that model
And that she can heal my scars.
Horror and lightness, like first desire,
Fill my lost and empty heart,
As a Cara and not a Joan promise
The sea where demons stay asleep
And that flesh and spirit make the stars
And the moon will always be the eye.
From behind the eyes of a swimsuit model
She beckons, the sweet and little death
Of washing away sorrow with magic.
“Will you come?”
“Will you come?”
Swimsuit model, with long dark hair,
a glint in her blue eyes; devil may care!
Lithe and strong, flesh made taut as wire,
like iron on the anvil, made strong for desire.
In azure waters, sparkling like blue jewels,
in places so distant from mortal rules,
she is goddess and siren, and she calls, calls,
to some dream beyond my madness and falls.
On my wall, queen of my restless fantasies,
with her in wild islands and warm tropical seas.
A carnal heaven, lust and love made one, perfected skin.
A place where what’s coming can’t find me ever again.
Alaska. Cinnamon. Snowflake.
Crippled catechism of hope.
I saw the rain that was coming.
I saw the rain that cleanses smokestacks.
Windowless, promises are stoked.
I can make the perfect angel breathe.
You lose the things that fired up legions.
Legions subsume you in time.
Throbbing beats, cash in hand.
Time is a pit that swallows gold.
Just a minute, chase and feed Blues.
Legions subsumed me in youth.
High above the ground, walking the tightrope.
She is serene and as unknown as an angel.
Her small feet walk without err or misstep, perfect.
Between heaven and earth she walks, flesh divine.
The air is without comfort, the fall without mercy.
She walks undaunted, uncaring, without fault.
Her costume glitters, her face set, her beauty cold.
An angel of the air, she walks between worlds.
I, all too human, fall for her, for her distant magic.
she smiles at us in the crowd, and bows sweepingly.
I clap and cheer, thinking a love her, not her fleeting grace
as angel of the air, a walker between worlds, flesh divine.