Now you welcome me to a town called Hypocrisy...
~ ~ ~
*~Rose~*
Her bedroom was in disarray, but there
were these extrodinary smells, like dung
and orchids, dog and lavender. The air
was wet with body odor, ball and tongue
and orifice. I never would have guessed,
when we were on the bed, and Mendelssohn
was on the radio, and we undressed
by the low light of votive candles on
the bedside table, that she was fragile
as bone china, held together with wax
and ribbons, pinion less mechanical
than I imagined. There were hairline cracks
in porcelain, and tangled in our clothes,
a cutting from what was a crystal rose.
~Bart Baxter from Sonnets from the Mare Imbrium
