Strike of eleven-fifty-nine.
The phantom at the gate glitters her lips in bloodred and bites a snowcake. Her face is spangled in constellations.
Nails lacquered with licorice beckon through candlesmoke.
Clouds of skulls and sugarplums rain peppermints. As I glide past fountains gushing peppermints a grandfather clock winks midnight and waltzing dolls flash doubletone hair in shades of sighs and sex and irony. On a dancefloor of sugarglass exquisite corpses swirl alongside teacups in the shadow lace, all glitter and wings and cupcakes and witch boots. As the piano switches tunes from blush to fuchsia the moon grins at me and I
grin back.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment