stiletto crow - poetry show

The Hills

Like a tap turned on after a long absence, the release
of grateful water, as outside a car door CHHOUMM slams.
The flamingo wakes the zoo.

A flame licks the arch of the S, Luigi on Sunset utters this
warning to his single-sinned wife, “Don’t be taking my pasta
or my woman.”

She’s come to the stone in the middle of the peach. The sea
is ruined but the light off the waves promises as sieved sugar
on a tart.

Her cat’s rictus grin wins her over – “oh Jenga, come here,”
she says and clicks her tanned fingers. Jenga brushes against
ormolu, padding over.

He’s not flown for at least a year. He’s 51 pages and pure lakes,
a fly and orange upside down cake. He slicks his hair back
like Crispin Glover.

“Do you wanna arm-wrestle, stone pussy?” A balcony breeze
brings a modest erection to the hairs on her arm; her heart
is like a net.