At the Cabaret - revised

[lucentwavering]

Draft 2 -

“Darling, be an angel, pass me a cigarette”,
she said, thinking angels gracious creatures
smoothing pains like children’s well-worn blankets
(how fear is folded into aging eyes
and morbid yearnings burrow under skin).
The nonchalant pucker of lips; quick flame;
the suckling of ash: erotic exhalations
that fade in calm disquiet to a pleasant
haze. I also thought that angels
would appease. They don’t. They come
screaming rigid vengeance while I lie
stretched over my bed between
days which fray to inebriated evenings;
come roaring quaint flirtations for elusive
divinities. And though I wish to float into the night,
even the birds, drunk on rotted fruit, are devastated
by the window.

Draft 1 -

“Darling, be an angel, pass me a cigarette”,
she says, thinking angels gracious creatures
smoothing pains like children’s well-worn blankets
(how creases fold around our fearful eyes
and morbid yearnings burrow in our skin).
The nonchalant pucker of lips to flame
the suckling of ash, erotic exhalations
which fade in calm disquiet to a pleasant
haze. Weren’t we told that angels
should appease? They do not. They come
screaming rigid vengeance while you lie
stretched over your bed between rigorous
days which fray to inebriated evening
horrors; come roaring quaint flirtations for elusive
divinities, though we only wished
to float into the night: drunk
as the birds who have gorged on fruit, devastated
by a window.