Stopping, stopping

cutting

the call.

Fevered

rearrangement of icons.

Tumbled from

the

tussling of

Minds. Now

running, directed.

He is Mercury,

not pretending.

The pompous kings

in nicotine palaces,

smoke themselves

into an illiterate frenzy.

And we laugh

and sigh,

urgency,

brimming hypocrisy and

we are real and proud,

all twinkling in our sequined bodies.