Consumption

nine.

Surrounded by taut-skinned golden angels of the morning

Drifting through the smoky streets and flickering --

Like so many florescent bulbs

Shallow little, sallow-faced moths

Clamor at their marmalade-glazed fingers

Grapple at the cloth of their coats

Dreams are dangerous creatures, dreams

Will only disappoint

Dreams dawn now their silky black sunglasses

And slink away from cannon fire camera light

Careful still -- to strike

A preferable angle when folding their wings

Shock me, 

Shock me

With your sweetly practiced tears

Shock me with collegiate words, spoken stripping down

For newsstand passers-by

Delight me with your brave smiles

When idyllic love leaps from your hands

And onto countless cheap paper piles

Delight me.

Blind each would-be butterfly

Who craves, pitifully,
 Illusory escape from such a thorny garden as this

Lure them into your neon bliss.