Phantasmagoria

Phantasmagoria

Nine-thirty-seven p.m.
gazing from the backseat
at layer-cake buildings
swathed in buttercream marble
that oozes filthy lucre;
wondering what lies behind
the flourishes the engravings
behind the verandas
and brass room numbers:
men in Valentino seducing
lushes with lips like kir royale
clutching sleek goldtone vibrators
behind their backs.
I want to blossom into
one of those bitches
with the eight-hundred dollar
haircuts and jutting hipbones,
rocks like grapefruits
on their index fingers;
never loaded or
anorexic enough; and
they’ll call me Queen Bitch
with a rhinestone collar.
I will slather myself
with body shots of Chambord ,
want to be ravaged on satin sheets
and bleed rose petals,
want trash couture
tainted fame in the social circus
from swinging on a chandelier—
Nine-thirty-eight.
The light flashes green and it all
Rushes past in a neon blur.