Pearls in Ultraviolence (imagined lost LDR track – slow, syrupy tempo, reverb like fog rolling over Mulholland Drive)

I love her sudden and flowing thinking,

a silver mercury spill across cracked motel mirrors,

thoughts tumbling like loose sequins in the neon bleed.  She is the play of my dreams, every round a knockout

delivered in her rope-a-dope sway—

gloves of black satin, lips bruised plum,

leaning back against the ropes of twilight,

letting my punches land soft then savage

until I'm the one gasping, sweat-slick, spent.  She is dope, pure uncut midnight,

I wish continual my drug, my high—

let's melt into our baggage of pearls,

strands heavy as wet silk ropes around our throats,

iridescent tears harvested from old arguments,

high high high on the shimmer of what hurts most.  Let's kiss among the lilies—

ivory trumpets unfurled in a moonlit cemetery garden,

petals cool and waxy against fevered skin,

their funeral sweetness masking the copper scent of ultraviolence lurking just beyond the wrought-iron gate.

We hide there, tangled in Spanish moss and shadow,

her breath jasmine-hot on my collarbone,

while distant sirens wail like jilted lovers.  Love is a pearl in her eyes—

one perfect opalescent drop suspended in the hazel storm,

catching dashboard glow and streetlamp sodium,

born from years of grit, swallowed words, quiet storms.

I stare until the world refracts through it,

euphoric, driven through the imagination of her high,

her baggage of neurotic ultraviolence spilling like black ink

across the white sheets of my mind.  She is the dream of the culture—

all that faded Hollywood baggage of riding,

red tail-lights streaking like fresh wounds on endless asphalt,

convertible top down, wind whipping her raven hair into wild coronas,

radio crackling old doo-wop confessions while the engine purrs promises it can't keep.  Let her ride ride till the season of love dissolves,

tires singing on rain-slick blacktop,

she is lost in my eyes like cigarette smoke curling toward the ceiling fan,

I've captive to her ultraviolence—

bound in velvet restraints of her gaze,

her manicured nails tracing blue veins like road maps to ruin.  Let me fly in her high,

ravenous and ravished, suspended in wait of her neuroses—

those electric-blue nerves sparking under porcelain skin,

making me high high high,

a moth drunk on the flicker of her damaged halo,

wings singed, still spiraling upward into the velvet dark.