Deco Drive

The heat (op)presses down
like an old cast iron flat
heated cherry red
on burning coals,
steaming smooth the wrinkles
in the garden of sin.
Latex flowers grow,
fermenting in a blown glass
vase of expensive merlot.
Overhead, the pen and stink
of crucifix windows
stare down like sweaty voyeurs
panting to sneak a peek
of lust’s forbidden flesh,
a pinked-on nipple
or a silicon bubble
of man-made ass.
Signs, revealed and delivered,
tell the tattooed tale
of abandonment and pierced delight,
the crack-shack art deco café
of moon lunacy
and serpent nights.