Dead Lore

She collapses to a fugue of car horns. She has a mouth waiting for the kiss of life that can never be.

I cannot do her justice. I have a bad appetite to win the heart of the accusers' saviour. I am pointing out steaming road signs, bounty for the voyeurs. I am appalled at hope. It may disappear in a few hours. A glorious adornment of my infatuation with sheer tragedy, the picture is only made up of memories. I do not plan on having memories.

Seeking solace, I am brought to silence. The gutter is her captor. Stunning!

Like an innocent consumer, she is filmed at the pop-star menagerie by an Italian movie director. She erupts on the giant video screen to village fête her enemies like Robin Hood on his day off, so as not to absolve the compositors; like a Greco-Roman atrocity replayed in the Garden of Babylon's pagan, pyrotechnic antiquity.

I think I possess wickedness. Frequently I caress the photograph of the corpse.