flowers that smell of shit and spoil your senses while maiming your thoughts with foolish pretenses

I’ll meet you on the dance floor.
Laura, your head looks best adorned with laurel,
more regal than the queen of the Nile,
more genuine than Jesus.

All the girls glare
and the boys stare with mouths gaping.
You tell the best stories with a mouthful of wine
and teeth and lips stained Tyrian purple.

Even Aphrodite feels green
when your Greek feet grace the floor
and your hips gyrate to the beat
of the sonora and my heart.

I silence my pulse and look away
to catch my breath
but I lose the moment.
Your figure slips away
into the arms of another,
an Adonis of the dance floor
(and I, a Dionysian fool).

~ by subterraneanlibrarian on 30 November 2012, 9:37:38 pm.