I see the sideways glances
the curling lip as it twitches into a knowing smirk which makes you feel pure and above
all the depravity you see in my swaying hips
but the bottom of your feet and mine share the same packed dirt
and your man
yes yours
knows exactly where to find me
I have long memorized the list of vices the nuns railed against with slaps and exhortations to heaven
and I wear them like plumage
like an artists pose
I lie and I cheat and I steal and laugh with the serpent
I will wear any costume and paint any face upon mine 
and kiss their fears away with a stolen lipstick
while you speak of judgement and of pride and the fallen
reserve your scorn for one who can still be touched
I have taken what even your nightmares couldn’t and lived 
not to tell  
for my tales are all my own and kept in a deep place your surface digs could never reach 
however cold and crowded my secret self may be 
it softens nothing 
only fuels the fire I need to move among the living and use what I can
what is so freely given
draining the cup so dry even the gilt fades 
tossed into the corner when I take my leave 
bound again for a new name and new city
with new parts to play even if the lines are always the same
another audience to assemble with customers who will pay the highest price 
for the lowest lies 
almost too easy a dance 
with wiles and smiles and trailing fingertips and a crimson apple to match my lips 
for the ones who mutter harshly on the street at noon with your kind on their starched and proper arm
are the same who will knock softly
at midnight.

About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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