Robert E. Brown. Cleopatra Peach

She is:

an expatriate in a state of decay,
riddled and thrown by the ugly beliefs her father
and her father’s
fathers declarations of expectation impregnated
upon her at
such a soft
angelic
age.

A specter mirage holding court in the grey matter of those who behold her a different novel in each late night
fantasy hard on.
Hard copy facts meaningless as she poses regal,
the smell of whiskey on her breath,
a cigarette taste,
of lipstick,
and the style of a cadillac.

Her subjects under heel smile grinding bloody as she toe taps,
jukebox
happy
to the joys of James Brown.
she revels in her shackled empowerment
placed on a throne in a
midnight
poor man's
alternative nation.
she is elevated and word candy delicious.
she is black lungs and pale sexuality.
she is a sovereign divinity and a barbarous bitch.
she is mislaid and squandered in grace.
A harlot royalty beaten-
tin crown worn in glamour.
Eye shadows on conspirators all submerged in murk fill
musk dark
dim lit envy
at evening end she exits.
leaving them charmed.
leaving them spent.
a cerebral celebrity.
bloated with dead hope energy.
and thoughts of the next night.


My Company