Don’t look for consistency when
asking about his identity:
he’s a cross between himself
and a stranger he has never met.
Sure feeling like a million sterling
and then some change,
the whisky in his belly
sets him in the path
of a spectral dame.
Begging for the freedom
to just pick up and leave,
by introduction he hopes
to conquer this dimensionless beast
simply born of the syllogism
of the dancefloor rhythm
and the flash of a chandelier.
Alien to mortal existence,
her skin is a wondrous tapestry
of infinite colour and complexity,
stained indelibly by a dress
that would look the height of fashion
on any other woman.
Bored of having every whim answered,
every degenerate wish granted,
she forces he pay the theft
of living in the crowded
miser’s den of private ego.
An unimaginable force keeps
this sybarite inexplicably
anchored to observable reality.
He should have been thrown out by now
but instead stands as an impertinence
to their unstated lust, tight
in the jaw, clutching an expensive single malt.
A dilettante of the vilest crime
imaginable, she tortures him
with the peculiar imagery
of crimson lips blooming
on her stony expression.
They assess each other’s
lurid intentions, painfully
aware of the suffocating
emptiness of impatience.
