Pseudopsychosis.

Frost labors
my neck, the snake
of womb in there
Eastern Europe
then the admonitory
shores to the oneiric
seize of our fruits
dismembered with
white at the
tentacles of spring
Gimcrack, exiled
in arabian perfumes;
shun me, music,
like a stranger
in the romance
pollinating
in sedated blood
of the Sahara,
in which the snap of bone
is first heard like Pharroh’s
whip to my ankle-bones;
and I still seek
those arabian perfumes
Lady Macbeth whispered
to the pink bare of her hands,
carved like the little girl
in first love of wine
in her blood; vanilla skin
the white of bones
reflects to the red-hills
dwelling my dark blonde
mad to the moon.

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Written for the dVerse prompt: “Give a detailed description of what you see in the mirror, or to use that as a springboard to head off in an unexpected direction. Give me a portrait of yourself as an extended metaphor…”

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