Faded

Congo was an elitist who spoke in parables.
His sofa reeked of blue cheese and wheat crackers.
With pen in hand he placed his mark in places for iconclasts.
His bow tie lay across the desk in blatant disregard.
Fear rested on his pinky finger and joy in the index.
His marvels dressed in pink chiffon and his pains in packaged pudding.

Pristina’s voice entered over the intercom.
“A select dozen have arrived,” she reported.
“Resort to plan ‘B,’” he told her through the voice sender.
Tell Roge I am ready for passion.
Redirect all intents and purposes.
As a matter of fact, grab the bag and interact.

Pristina pushed the pause button, relaxed, filed her nails
and adored the freezing of sidewinding
against quondam doorways that fall short
of bon vivant locales of present particles.
The purpose of on purpose
proposes that it is as ought to be.


Vashti (c) 2007