knee-reaching, my hair dusted your trousers
that billowed around me like circus tents
with you, the pallid clown marionette,
emaciated under reams of swarthy silk.
contrast of black against your rice-paper skin;
the images stuck to me and burnt lacerations
in the zenith of nights where ink flood spread out
around me. You said black would
eat the slab of alabaster that clung to your thighs
temporarily, that is until something could be done to
burn them away to ashes of white.
You, pallid clown marionette, withering under this
bulging mass of onyx in a
media woven circus of death.
smiling with angry sockets that accented
principle poverty sprung from
Last hug, pressed against black. All
I could feel was the livid
spike of your spine. Through comforts
I could hear the fading beats of your
heart as they battered its own requiem.