She is short skirts,
long drags on cigarettes,
eloquently cursing
through the rings

She thinks nastily,
with rhetorical fondness,
preening the eccentric hoopla
of her Donjon's memoirs

There, she has kept
such pets
in fresh-spun webs,
groomed
between her fingers,
in the darkest hours,
between her legs

She raises a brow
to whisper
"Amuse me, Darling"
when others dare
to dew her dirty

She is bold to say
how much she loves
the way
your voice soothes
her inner thighs
She is too loud
to sigh about it

She curls up,
reading Anne Rice,
wondering how
she finds time to write,
while blocks away
from a Quarter
of all the worlds' sin

She is the smoky silhouette
beyond beaded finesse,
listening
to Drops of Jupiter,
pondering
the birth of Venus,
admiring Gaia's decision

She is the emerald wine bottle,
empty in squinting light,
when placed
betweeen laced thoughts,
she emblazons
the virtuous fire,
with blooming midday rouge

When night comes,
she seeks to elude,
such white dress laciness,
as she paints her lips
with shameless sanguine,
kissing pure strangers
just for the thrill of it
She spills