She is an antique whore.

The hand-made paper silhouette
of her slinking back
is moth-eaten, desperately
flooded with the continuity
of a flower held against
her entangled plastic heart.

Her lavender passion
is the breath of
a hoard of seething men
who are crucified with
inner thighs and palms
and skin desire.

The full medicine jacket
of both
lower and upper lips
wet with action
ties them up
helplessly
as she
drains ink and paper through their veins.

You only see her through the plate glass,
yet she is not even a memory.

On a billboard, on Fox Reality TV,
they slip on her like a banana,
but it is not her optical,
pixels of lust that keep us alive.


(When passion is spent
and still you exist in her eyes
and she exists in yours:
this is love.)