theatropoeia (theatropoeia) wrote,
theatropoeia
theatropoeia

Phthonis

Why, of all the nerve
How dare he whistle here
What pride can possess a man?

The swaggering musicality of his step doesn’t suit him

Nor does that fedora on his head
That recklessly careless strut
That hand with those ivory tickling bra undoing digits

Caressing the French girl in the blue dress
Underneath the Lady Moon’s soft reflections and reconciliations

He moves like jazz
It doesn’t suit him
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