Bride of Frankenstein
I am living with the myth in mind of my own private bride of Frankenstein.
I have made her of the image amalgamation of the dissected fragments of the best of all parts; parts seen, experienced, fixated upon, and conceived of.
Parts all whole in themselves, yet lacking, feeling the hole.
Parts that gave me that idealdiseasedeyes vision that ever ups the stakes.
Eyes encompassing their own orbits.
Hair short and golden, fine to the touch.
Pissed Mama off that you never carried a purse and always wore pants.
Waiting with flowers and a wish in the greenroom.
Pixie valkyrie who rode into the dream haze on 500 cc’s of slick, black, and slender.
The scent of recycled nicotine, fragrance, sweat, and leather.
Ever color-morphing metal-carpet coif.
Tracing skin-games on our backs.
Length of neck and jaw that begs caress.
Coming on top in the topical transmission of what remains the weakness to the day.
Frankenstein bride in mind stitched fast, awaiting the component completion with pieces yet unseen.
Condensing the currents of passion, poised upon the ignition of animation.
The Frankenstein construction to glide alongside within the spaces we make in the ether.
Bride of the Frankenstein mind, sitting polished blazoned and refined in your body of image and feel.
Will you take a walk outside, to trip beyond these grey-matter confines into the unfolding peel of night-black sky.