The hairdressers with sanguine grace
And half-burnt cigarettes
Depending from their painted lips
Ash eternal in its about-to fall
Are savage on Thursday afternoons
Dreaming of the wine-dark night
Ship-drunk and restless flailing
Erratic as the snicker-snick
An alien reek of ammonia and formaldehyde
An octopus on your head
Making new-dreamt vanities
For the blue-rinse evening
A brothel and chrome Chevrolet
With those half-sloped fuck me eyes
Fishtails Bloody Mary streets
The traffic lights too late
For planetary deceleration
Sliding nowhere fast
Where the broken glass
In gutters spilled with kind hot rain
Shines like Friday’s fantasies
On Sundayfalling down again
With that burnt steel-radial persistence
Worn through til fangs are showing
The whitewalls gone a furious red
As if hell or Jesus came
On electro-glide suspension
Ice-cream pink and blasphemy blue
In my raw seclusion
A macassar disorder
Only time will destroy
The tiger-way it circles
While with an urgency for the blind
A harpy shrieks and shrieks and shrieks
Leaving me one step behind
Lost at this roaring intersection
About the Creator
C S Hughes
C S Hughes grew up on the edges of sea glass cities and dust red towns. He has been published online and on paper. His work tends to the lurid, and sometimes to the ludicrous, but seeks beauty in all its ecstasy and artifice.
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