she's around these coarse and pocked (god pocketed rocks)
street corners, appears in smoke and ciggarette mirrors,
a word-boy-man-emotion vampire
that can only be seen
in the mirrors on ciggarette packs.
watch the deadly roulette dance
as she comes over to sit and talk and smoke and whine and rave and rant but be (mostly).
there are thin shells probably self constructed by FOREseen hells but-
it's all there.
she dreams and screams on about passion and feeling
(all blended together to get that color of sadness)
she's a lusty fire in the night
on the rainmarked flatscreen horizon
of some african swamp
and she will BURN Hot,
and stickChurn herself in the ashes.
but in the dust dark black mud will shine the tears
(red and glowing ember ashes)
of stars still dying-
and wants left yet to want.