Tag Archives: temptation

Artifice Joy

This set, where the young lover lived,

a cozy apartment above Chinese take-out

and boutiques and a distant, false,

Greenwich Village street.

I sit here, on the bed, the set dresser’s

idea of what a young woman’s bric-a-brac

would be, as the century burns out, exhausted.

I smoke French cigarettes. I dream of her.

The young lover, the actress refined, sharp,

in fine clothes and soft, consuming white furs,

the warmth swallows you into sleep, dreams

of what you hide behind your bed.

The fur hat, Russian Grand Duchess of a

strongman’s age, 22 is made for serpent kisses,

and she is soft and timeless as alabaster statue

in ruins on the street in Alexandria.

I am not a Christian; I’d have to be human first,

and I put the sigil under the bed for when the

young lover and the handsome lead have their

love scene, to mainline the glamour, artifice joy.

I dream of her, make her face into an angel’s laughter,

or a distant, beatific restlessness as I sleep in this bed,

home being where The Devil is waiting for me, and I know,

if he offered the chance to be her, I’d take it. I’d take it.

Where does one get French cigarettes at 2 a.m., in London,

when the angel’s are all stuck hustling tricks by Picadilly Circus,

and I have to slice off the instrument of hate, to be whole,

to not spread tears. Her tears would heal me. Fucking shakes!

The Devil is waiting for me, and I know if her offered the

chance to be her, I’d take it. I’d take it.


Alaska. Cinnamon. Snowflake.

The Noise Unceasing

Myung-Hee,  knows the ghost is here, knows it’s loss.
A charm of silver around her neck, keeps her strong.
The tracks have known so many suicides and regrets.
Myung-Hee, retreats into her hoodie, hugs herself tight.
 Spirits of the dead linger, and this one, young girl broken,
whispers in her ear, how soft and quiet are sunless seas,
how warm the waters that soothe away the scars and blood.
Myung-Hee knows there is no peace on the other side, no quiet.
 Cold in her hoodie, wiped out and numb in her mind, she puts in
earbuds, to find the song her mother loved, that she still recalls
listening to, safe in her mother’s arms, soothed by her heartbeat.
The beat of the music, the hiss of the tracks, is a poor recollection.
 As Myung-Hee walks up the stairs from the subway station,
up into the lurid second daylight of the city, the noise unceasing,
the ghost gets left behind, wisps away into the depths of the station.
But there’s alway a ghost, always a temptation to leave.


Old historical documentary on YouTube, about the Lorelei.
Oh, you son-of-a-bitch, you who called me sweetie, honey pie!
The Lorelei sat on the rocks, great beauties, and sang a siren song.
You went and did it, put your cock somewhere it did not belong !
The Lorelei lured the sailors onto the rocks, sailors temptations killing.
The fact that you could tell me, and her that “I Love You”, is chilling.
But she wasn’t magic, that siren song wasn’t for sure, you didn’t have to.
You could have stayed true to me, kept your vows, but you didn’t want to!