Fairy Floss Stilettos
Your water-blue eyes reach out
to that space between
the almost wet sky
and the red simmering earth.
The oven dry wind makes watery waves
of your streaky blonde hair
and bakes your Polish porcelain skin reddish pink.
A million light years behind you,
from that almost forgotten galaxy,
is this shadow of a man
still bombarding you with radio waves
of the first melting of sweet fairy floss
on your curious tongue.
Mother is always there
to your right helping you grow wings
even coaxing your horns
and pulling your tail out,
from the early days of cuddly bears
to last week's killer stilettos —
inside your closet of secrets and dreams.
To your left from the basement
of a frothy rich cocktail of air tickets,
post cards, and bus rides,
pipes out the delirious melodies of Hanson
leading a horde of nymphetic desires
out into the sea of bucolic sirens and fairies
where the Incubus prey-fully waits
in the darkest nooks and crannies of the sea cave night.
Directly in front of you,
hiding behind the dust clouds
of apprehensive uncertainty
lies the electric storm of:
melting eyes, skin, lips, tongues, flesh and sound.
No words can describe this secret
of making rain to quench the eternal drought.