A wake of vultures feasts

Upon her ill-begotten heart

She is progressive

And extensional

A self-anointed heroine

Too corporal to be a strict



She grimaces on departure

Fantasies wept in technicolor

Sharpening her talons

Explicit as a scalpel

The next dissection

Will be cleaner

She assures


A mendacious coquette

She is beautiful

In a a way that excuses

All personal responsibility

Men assume themselves.

In her company, deficient

She is forgiven everything

Even murder

This is written about an unspecified/generic city though I imagine it could be used to describe a person


The Devil’s Hands

spider 2

I crossed the park into the city

A webbing of steel carcasses

Exalting a skyline smudged

In charcoals and prosaic blues


There are no angels in this city

Only precarious thighs


I watched each would be consumer

As they weaved their spindly souls

Through red lit alleys and glass facades

Wanton arms leaden,

Dent-less lips liberally greased


The Devil suffers no shortage of idle hands


Impotent souls yield adroitly to greed

Everyone here wants to be someone else

To evade consequence and intimacy

For their fragment of prefab paradise


Empty eyes always hunger