Flat irons.

Can you see those vines will grow again 

those forks of friendships and steam 

running through the dry river bed 

where we now steer peering 

past the Silver of fairest sex nymph 

upside down 

The esprit riles the flats irons tied and 

changed Around the sunburnt neckerchief 

Dreams of parched lips three napoleonic 

Heels clicked becoming six.


There’s a gooseberry in this room and 

You foolish forget the mirrored ceiling

And if I’m going to burn it will 

Be with a troupe of Death Valley Girls

On both of my arms.


Fashion a kettle with orwell pages for 

Sun visor crowned an unremarkable stay

Buried in leaves swept to smokes.


The sound of reclining losing control to longwaves 

Fracturing handties flying kites 

In scrap yards cleared out in days.