lady day...

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
A
an eye, and more importantly, the only eye, really...
though sight catches glimpses of heavens: supple
breasts, green eyes perched over glass of whiskey,
swaying hips into and out of hell, lips... the burial
of God attended by the masses, where the Doors
were left unattended, those that enter into the
radiant hue...
...at the funeral Melania speaks of the Uncle
as the ridiculous one of the family, the painter, of
course... a youth spent drawing and looking up
girls skirts turns into small infamy in Buenos Aires,
before a fated decision to arrive to London with
numerous stints in legal and illegal forms of
gathering monies: ice cream truck driver, pyramid
scheme manager, death insurance finagler, a one
time potential hitman faltered: unable to gather a
gun with correct bullets, apparently... though, the
tears still fall, his long time girlfriend, loudly
speaks in Italian a poem, whispered Melania, a
poem her Uncle would recite whilst painting:
...the wounds never heal in the canvas of all
this...
...our colours repeat, until a new hue arrives
at dawn...
...Melania seems annoyed that these words
were spoken so loudly and right up next to the
casket by a woman all the family considered his
Mistress, with her Mother nicknaming her La
Whore — the red dress tightly fitted against
breasts, grey hair long and bewitching as if a
shadow of a giraffe, burning in the linger of the
Priest speaking words of good news... before the
eulogy disrupted by old rotund Argentinian
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