the lithography of nocturnes is not bitter

In a licking split lashes of laughter,
the tortoise shell brushed accident,
a blush once imagined in a minor sandstorm
of tornadic blue powder, dusted corners
at the rusty table in a dressing alcove
hidden from light by nocturnal browns

a once-famous name, red scraped amber light
behind the face, long ticked, when drawn lines
drew hot presses and the splattered greens
were draped upon a scene of woven linen.

Now the bounce is just a boing,
a bubble issuing from the dream of Krishna,

a rough of bristle dabbed in black
upon the arches archly formed of bore,

a carve upon the greasy stone
that is only borne by heavy pressing
from a gearbox beyond the grave,

a copy of the controlled accident
on tee-shirts for a dime.