The Dancer of Lothario Lane

As an Art collector, her nights are restless. 
Framed faces glare at her with disdain. 
The pop-art portraits are the worst,  
Loud colours grant bellowing voices, 
Shouting pop-culture poppycock  
As dusk sets in.  
She is resting in a chesterfield,  
Her eyes closed,  
Her glasses diming the rambunctious light.
Sundown crashes through Tiffany,  
And colour dances across the flat.  
As if Acid had forced itself upon her tongue. 
The marble men and women begin vibrating
They’re sick of standing still.  
Stiffened by a good day’s work,  
Laocoön walks across the room,  
With a boa as a scarf.  
He puts on Brahms,  
Trojans do love gravitas.  
Medusa protests, as do the Japanese masks, 
Bickering ensues.  
Ava Gardner’s portrait shuts them all up, 
With an ENOUGH that shatters 
The nearest Whiskey glass.  
Ava understands her mistress’ needs,  She
gives out the orders when The Mistress 
Is too fatigued.  
The Graces bring her some icy refreshments. 
A porcelain babe brushes up the broken glass. 
And Laocoon puts on Peggy Lee,  
As the masks provide 
Some soothing background vocals.  
The air grows denser,  
As wisps of cigarette smoke,  
Curl themselves around the furniture, 
An open window guides them outside. 
The sweet taste of rosé  
Slides down her stockings.  
Sparks unrest her feet.  
Ava sees this,  
And gives the sign.

Pink Martini fills the room with Sway. 
And all who can  
fill the floor,  
Rise to sway.  
From Bolero to Boogie  
From Sisters of Mercy,  
From The Mission,  
To Bowie,  
To Bjork,  
To Bach,  
To beats without a name.  
The evening flames  
Across the fast lane.  
As she sways from  
Room to room. 
Flashing skylines  
Look upon  
The demonic dancing,  
The possessed poses,  
The curling of flesh  
And marble to the sighs 
Of beats and booze.  
The room is galvanised,  
And its tremors bleed  
Into neighbouring walls. 
Passing through Lothario Lane 
Straightens the hairs.  

At three in the morning,  
Waltz No. 2 blazes 
Through the open door  
Inviting  
A lone traveler to take a look. 
Broken art covers the floor,  
Paintings shredded,  
Marble dismembered, 
Books hurled across the room. 
Tear You Apart  
Sings of sexy danger.  
He finds her,  
Rhythmically floating,  
Writhing on the ceiling  
suspended next to her art,  

As all swirls devoid  
Of gravity.  
The ether dances.  
She opens her candid eyes,  
Falling through the fourth wall  
Into golden stardust,  
Born from supernovas  
Pouring through Andromeda’s velvet purse. 
A sweet lover’s caressing chest,  
Catches her.  
As she rests,  
It lifts her into the nightly sky.  
By Jove! Seraphim love 
Like no mortal man.  
Tender, sweet,  
Wild if she wants.  
Her pleasure  
Is his.  
Orgasm is it all.  
Skin, breast, kiss and caress.  
Sin be damned.  
Salvation be damned.  
They dance through nebulas,  
And finally, as  
They reach the void’s toothless maw, 
She loses her balance,  
tumbling off her mezzanine  
Into the broken whisky glass.  

She awakens, the red chariot  
Torches the morning sky.  
Her apartment looks untouched,  
All ravishing and raving,  
Undone by the promise of today. 
Moving from her chesterfield,  
She finds her crimson sheets  
Covered by golden dust,  
As Tiffany’s brightness  
Once again,  
Covers the room 
With a divine glisten.

Tuur Verheyde