Like a photograph.
That chair, a scorched, velvet
mustard that holds her together
in the laziest of ways -
A condiment compliment
that aches of days
that our senses can only

She could be sixteen                       
or twenty-five.
It’s hard to tell in the age of
the affected artificial, and
our breed is never

Brazen, she perches beneath
the comic book lights of a seedy
fixture near the backstage entrance.
Her magazine poses.
Her sooty gray and black,
her Bowie eyes,
her bare Lolita thighs.

Like a doll, she waits
between the peeling paint walls,
above the ash and trash,
below the aroma of piss and sweat,
her entrails glued to the door.  

Her frame glides
into attractive angles
snaking, narcotic;
bass pulses through
the olives of her eyes
while pawns tread by
like a New York crosswalk.

She asks for a lot,
her eyeliner and exclusive tastes.
She ask for the peak,
the certain light, a moment fluttering
through jeweled fingers.

I see her like a photograph,
and she looks back at me through lenses.