Flesh for sale c/o : James P Honey

Behold my neon golden halo,
enflaming the fabric of the buildings quilting my master’s front door.
All looks the same to me, do I look the same to you?
Hell, who knows anything for sure, anymore, anyway?
Seems to me most tragedies
happen in slow motion……
Through my window I can float to wherever I wish to be,
go see the sea sing and prompt the tides to swing with magnetic attraction.
A tattoo of a gramophone lassoes me.
Perched on the fragile throne of one right foot,
I know I want to know her,
I think the petals know I know too.
Achingly
obvious.
One grows in an awkward burst of flames, alterations and repairs.
Any loathing is stained by many shades of curiosity.
Each punishes
the other in the company of others
while together all alone they embrace.