Blue Night

by The Juicer

We sat down
To eat away –
At the

blue night.

She said she was sorry,
that setting the table
Was delayed.
Clinking again and rolling
more red wine;
In her pink mouth.
(Pink, tonight!)
Perhaps it was alright –
The food still marinading;
The oven set on

We idled and looked
At the empty
I had made up my mind
not to speak;
Of those
That had been.
Just letting myself
steal glances
At her eyes;
Suspiciously looking back

A contemporary lamp stood in the corner –
cold, smooth, erect;
(“Looks great! Oh, it’s divine!”)
Designed to serve efficiency,
Incite conversation;
With indifferent streams
of steady light.

The food arrived and we ate –
Except for the sound,
of flesh tearing beneath
Our hands;
Relentless jags –
(“This is delicious! Look at us, so busy eating!”)
Expected fits
of etiquette.

There was time
on our hands.

More wine?

Such finely stuffed potatoes!
Peas a mint green!
Was I staying longer
that I should have been?
But I had
stayed –

Until I had found the words to talk about
(That is a work of art! Fits beautifully in this room!”)
all those wonderful things.
Until the lights from the street
had moved
Along the night walls;
And the creamy sun
had filtered,
The anemic blue air.
Until the walls
were a hue,
I had not seen

Blame us,
If you must!
We could not keep our eyes
The lace and pink velveteen!
Words tumble
In a room
Where many, many things to die for
Are on display!


I swore to her
I had heard,
The plumes in her hair
with fire on their tips –
Dipping in the window,
Slowly stealing away;
the morning sun.

A threat!

We wanted them,
To stay –
Wasn’t it merry?!
So we talked freely –
to the plumes;
Begging them!
Imploring them
with stories,

had stayed.

How very many laughters later –
they had
“Don’t be a tease!”
Bending their knees, baring their lust,
in a holy prayer;
Divinely sung,
At her crooked
young feet.
Oh honey! She had gurgled,

“It’s been real, It’s been fun!
But it ain’t been real fun.”
Borrowed words –
from anonymous.

Who cares who said,
What she said!
Her plumes were on fire,
her lips
Hunter’s red.
She had taken them home-
Lit a tender fire,
And set them neatly,
Next to her

And here they sat,
until today,
Blending in
beautifully –
With the tapestry.
Their eyes brittle (unlike mine!);
Still entranced!
Rows and rows and rows,
Of brittle eyes!

“There is chatter, they say,
in my head,” she laughed;
“But honey, I do wonder
if it happened at all?
It was;
And they were –
So real,
So fun!”

Not so remarkable;
I thought.
Not so easy to think
With wine in my head.
Her pink lips
and even
The plumes –
were long gone!
The creamy sun
had moved on?
If this was not night;
It was no longer the day!

We parted –
went astray.

For I had wished,
No longer
to stay.
(I should have known! Let me explain!)
The promise
had lingered,
Too long to survive.
In her room-
They said,
Slowly (and surely!),
In her