On the Black

[Indie]

On the Black

Blasted fortunes flung to perish, static cracks the skies (flung feels really out of place in this line. Doesn't flow with the other imagery)
where suns and sons quick wagers struck; (I like the play on words in this line)
gauntled by whirling wheels, un-slapped cheeks (guantled jars the flow here, the brain kind of stumbled of the words to get to the rest of the sentence)
so red, through spoke-blurred numbers;
Black comes the passion of wild excess.

Turn again, the wheel, the cheek;
Turn again.

Lofted by a streak called luck and dashed a million times
Like sailors berthed in china town, stuffed by need
To burn the bridge; no returns means no return.
Call it whilst the risk is high, call win loud and whisper loss,
Black feeds the passion of wild excess.

Turn again, the wheel, the cheek;
Turn again.

Crushed companions waft in silk, their perfume in the smoke;
Loved up by Cuban dollared dudes, Havanna, (that can’t be her name) (the bracketed part completely halts the flow, IMO, possible a rephrase)
Slides slippery and oozing need; some call it want, some call it greed.
With gloss red claws on beige she helps him count and smiles.
How black the passion of wild excess…

Turn again, the wheel, the cheek;
Turn again. (Really like the repetition of this)

Unfettered by the baying block, the jury to his trial,
Havannah slips into his space, alive with moments dripped in sweat; (this line doesn't flow as well as the rest of this stanza)
cool trepidation, strange they met, not speaking yet so close,
so soon; a spin between two sheets, and a proposition made.
So black the passion of wild excess….

Turn again, the wheel, the cheek;
Turn again.

Fortune smiles and leaves the room, no one sees her go.
The wheel, disturbed by butterflies wings, randomly proceeds.
The system lurches back and forth in evens, odds and highs.
Gauntlets gone, the suns will set, the wagers whisky drowned.
Black turns the passion of wild excess. (Love the first line, but found this stanza weak in comparison to the preceding stanza's)

Please turn once more, the wheel, the cheek;
Turn again.

Havannah rises, walks away, back into smoking night.
She turns again, the wheel is still, her lingered lust declines.
He looks her way; she stops, but sees the empty beggar’s hands
Her smile has changed to match the loss, to crush him into dust
Black is the passion of wild excess. (IMO this last verse is a little vague in it's execution, not as strong as the beginning verses)

Tectak
2012

I quite enjoyed the story of this poem. Could use some tightening up and clarification.

Indie