Divinity is a She-God named Angel

Angel divine,

spread your lips of wine

down on me

like the night.

My chest is heaving

beside the liquid drip

of the waterside,

where rumor’s tongue

has fledged new dreams…

beside

the liquid song

of waterways

and older days.

On the brink

of some desolate etiquette,

I’ll pause for effect

and drink

the last of Drama’s Vodka.

It spits back,

wallows sulkily in my belly

with a fire I liken

to the damp creep

of burrowing insects

as they dig deep and far

in the inner trails of

intestinal heaven.

I am in lemon-mode,

impractical and broke

on the edge of funny poverty,

just inches before the lip

of the windowsill,

where ruin lies below.

The phone jingles harsh melodies

as I yawn myself awake,

angel perched atop my chest,

(drawled with a melancholic whine...)
how divine