Bruised

The bluish screen burns my eyes,
rapes my skull; the golden wings
rise and stun me not like him, not like
you; like no existence in a fantasized world.

I feel and cling to his red beating heart;
the pearl shaped bullet in the centre of his
spine does not bother, nor wakes me up;
unless it hurts and cringes his deluded mind.

I see the three nude dancers abandoning
the green hills, revolving on the blue tiles,
repeating the same motion as the Coyote Ugly,
copying the ebb and flow, running fast as the Lola girl.

I open my eyes, first the left then the right, and
see the old notes, still resting on the melting floors;
blaming me for my dreams, waiting for someone to
play them right on an honest stage, in a true scene.

I stay in bed, in desperate need of
dark roasted to flush out my
bruised night.

S