Cigarette, lazy between two fingers.
Black and white but for a gold and green lamp
and the occasional silver shimmer from
a faux diamond or a fake crystal decanter.
Lampshades with frills and patterns
but no bulbs,
a heavy scent rests, on the walls,
dimmer than white,
empty gin bottle and full glasses,
suitcases filled with fur.
Books piled high on rugs, themselves piled one atop the other,
an abundance of nothing.
None but you.
Intoxicated by your own being,
lost in some glamour that never was,
except in the fleeting movements of a novelists hand.
Cat’s tail brushes on a bare ankle, peeking from behind an overused stiletto,
itch the rash,
A witch! A witch! They cry
And you cry too
(into a doily)
graying yellow tones of black and white,
net curtains like an open hand held up to the sun,
hoping the long day is gone.
A shadow with a burnt out cigarette.
A film star in a café
amongst people without sleek straight hair
or cream fitted dresses
or heels or rings or necklaces,
drinking elegant algae,
whilst the shmucks order
Lie down, sink within that plush velor sofa,
worn, tired, overworked,
the raised flower pattern marks your skin.
Wait for morning.
Green and gold.