the lights push their tiny twinkling mighty fists
through royal orange tinged ozone cloak
where in the northernmost cheek of Lady Angeles
Her court’s Hollywood sign summons the ghost
perhaps to enhance Her downtown hemline
where Her proud feet stomp down with fury
on the last remaining eyes.
on Lady Angeles’ head is the jeweled setting sun
caressing Her hillside fiery hair
to where Her jawline creates a blank mountain ridge
as we dive into Her haughty bosom
where we die and resurrect in divine light
out of nothing.
my Lady’s balmy metropolitan breath
puppeteers Her southernmost palm trees
as seen in past centuries by Her tawny Nephilim
kept in mad house storage
along Her Wilshire Boulevard
the miracle mile of all illusions
floating down the Vicodin corridors toward Lady’s womb in the Southeast
the mercenary birds of her entrance
strategize in unison on the stage of the moon
circling about a rain dance to the gods below Her river.
to the prophets of the ghetto cart
ascending to one of Her rooftop temples
in worship of ancient dark
in the age of paradox
in the industry of bootleg Immutable Light
bowing down to Her in the East
a facsimile of the Zeus’ and Poseidons’
dressed with man-hole crowns
virility that is hard to see in the shadows of the sky scraper overlords
who protect my Queen from extreme chess games
designed to lose Her head in the hills of Beverly.
Lady Angeles’ fortress nestled in the end of civilization
lies at Her feet in glory to Her beauty
only if i look inside of me
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