Art-aud-ily
Even our less vile dreams
shall never rest on camphor
pillows.
We shall tread the dissolute
planks of your fierce-
some stage
chewing the cruelty in your
words with cobweb-like tender-
ness;
the pentacles marked in
gaffer tape shall be our anti-
strophes.
Entangled to your black wings
we shall soar into the limelight of
delirium.
Mo(u)rning Becomes Electra
Another O'Neill's morn
over the trodden boards - the
frosted wings wink and ache.
Townspeople upstage
rehearse narcotic atrocities
in form of chorus.
In the stalls, maddened by
darkness at dawn, I mull over
lines of decaying beauty.
