between fine edges with details.
High-rise images are six inch heels
where kittens don’t venture
without boas wrapping around them tightly.
It’s a pump that sucks life from you
as it returns fetid, rancid or abused air.
Spikes lay at your bedpost,
fans are scattered all about
florets burrow holes in your chest cavity,
soaking up time, furnishing blood through crude canals.
I am watching from a distant corner
where feather-foil lays on stilettos,
crushed underfoot and worn into the carpet
with cigarette burns left behind,
like the trash strewn about in your life.
They have taken out all air conditioning units,
replacing them with old dusty golden coins
to be deposited at a local arcade resting easy …
no-one will ever win a trophy.