the morning comes shrieking in
and we are mad on love and coke
and the rolling stones.

the bedroom air is heavy like perfume,
so dance with him, with her, with the
rolled up dollar bills jumping between
blood-stained fingers.
laugh at your own jokes.
grin at your own cunning.
catch your eye in the bedroom mirror,
marvel at this single, unending moment:
blown out pupils, pitch skirts of a velvet gown;
red hair flying, medusa, hell on a string,
and a smile—
your smile, swallowing you whole.