Annabelle

I.

The waltzer of the ages sleeps

in the gulley's of the Gaia, as black

and draping starry skies

lurch on the night's bowed back

and the tired dried lips of her

pale bouche fall tenderly agape

above the body foetal-wrapped

into a shrunken huddled shape

where the ashen day-wandrin' limbs

and boughs of the temple's trunk

enmesh in the cold March night

in the room of sheets, bumf and bunk

but in this drunken crimson womb,

the waltzer takes forty to fifty winks,

turning the curled lashes to the rising

whiskey sun and clouds of mottled pink.

II.

In the milk-white mist of life,

a kindred spirit cantered passed

with painted deep-mauve lips

parted by the iced Bacardi glass,

with her rhythm, loose and beguiled

as the slinking tangerine sun,

sinking into the dusk

of what must

go and then become

and over the lawn, the season

greened except for this spirit, lost

in the wispy dandelions, blowing

in the gardens, wild and tossed

where the kindred spirit lingers,

dancing on the evening's glebe

loitering in the party's gobbledegook

by the tallest, greenest willow tree

and though the night's as black

as rum, her eyes billow wild hazel

fires, which send a tingle from

my dreamy brain down to my navel.