idiocy of the ostentatious

She weasels past

in a disco shaded gallop,

dropping trou

but only in her mind.

New York's gone retro

for a wink in her honor;

she is wit beneath

the idiocy

of the ostentatious.

And yet she's howling mute,

rendered silent in her fury,

still locking horns

with seething demons in her head,

trapping an overpowering sense

of righteous wrong

left empty -

turning, bending, twisting

in on itself.

She felt her life flashing

between her eyes,

falling down into sickness

and up into the laundry hamper.

But still she's turning, bending, twisting

in on herself.

And still she's shaking, writhing, falling

onto her sword

of Damocles,

chased by a whiskey

with always the work

left to do.