Mirrored Blues
This passion of mine
hungers for the strange
and the unknown
I don’t know why
I do the things I do, baby
maybe because I love you?
It can’t be, it couldn’t be
that would be too cliché
as in an abstract from the truth
that bares down on this fruit of ours.
I stare past the mirror
of everyday red painted lips
to the mirror behind me
looking at the past reflecting
in the present to the mirror
before me-a mirror
that bares no future of us.
I must confess this to you, baby
but somewhere in this ill fated house
Billie Holiday croons “Strange Fruit”-
a symbol of our ripened to unperfection
love,
you understand, I always understood;
we separate
with only a pocket mirror dividing us.
Memphis
Her voice was sultry
and carried sensually high
beneath the muddled lounge
of singers dead within
untriumphed souls
men stressed in timeless fedoras
conversing amongst
Cubans and booze
hearts coagulating
to the blues of misfortunes
