At night
I’m tripping on my shoes
and an incessant sound of scorching you
and I can’t stop blithering
in decadent folds and pleats
of an inherent blackout sliding into my room
splintering at shelves of cavernous, encrusted memories
with stains and spots coming to surface too soon
inviting metamorphoses in and anamorphoses out
- or is it the other way round?

At dawn,
I’m having my breakfast at Tiffany’s
to feed the super luminous
iridescent
beast