peacock gothic chic

Grey overcast clouds
gather and form
a billowy sash pillowcase...

Shadows chase the light rays away...

A sleepy Monday buried deep
beneath the L.A. fog..

I'm trying to jog my memory
and recall if I ever felt
this way
about anyone else at all...

Too good to be true?

That's the only label
I can apply to you
since you defy all definitions
and fill me with strange premonitions
of what is meant to happen
and the reasons which madden and
sadden me...

Your style is peacock Gothic chic
chock full of locks with no keys
so low-key and with a
smoky antique vintage technique...

Where in your world is a place
for a poor boy who succumbs
to the whirlpool pearls of
every girl he surveys?

I'm tired of letting myself be
led on and tread upon
so from now on until
the dead of dawn
I won't dwell upon how long
the others have been gone
and I will get on with living
this ladyluck life of mine...

But still
I feel a chill
trilling its tendrils tenderly and
gently up and down my spine...

Is it a thrilling sign?
Or am I just killing time?

I'm diligently hoping
that it will all be fine...


--from April 2007