Paling silence.

I, in full drag,

my maladroit perfection,

a staggering penance.

I am all lace.

My hands leather,

no tether of class.



now all that shuts,

my eyes, corneas,

derelict huts.

Peroxide stained,

splotchy skinned and pained,

my spine of lithium,

my skin of need.

It is the symmetry,

forced these days.

The Lenox is expanding

from all the fretful heat.

I move like ecstasy.

All smiles and fragile,

rising upward,

debasing security.

I uncuff them,

pieces coveted.


The sun gleams bright,

on clement metal.

My skin mottled,

like the scene through smoke.

I drink and drink.

The ventriloquist,

now the white gold woman,

under sheer, white linen.

I have no words now

or ever.

There was nothing I could have done

and she knows better than anyone.