13 December 2016


"God, that moon is bright!"


He glides into the room
Fairly wearing the half-world,
The demimonde trailing behind
Him in whisps, squid-ink
Clouds painted across the
Crepuscular moon, the iris
Of an hooded eye, in the twilit sky.
He is replete with the

Perfume of sex, controlled
Substances, late night street
Walking, cigarettes, the characters
You'd never want your mother
To meet, the smells of the world.
The French say world,
But the Germans hear moon.
Which only makes sense.

L. Steve Schmersal, Demimondaine, December 2016

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