King

Consumed 

By costumes

As though it were a clammy 

Wretch 

Bubbling in my lungs 

Hotter than steam 

As sticky as blood 

Cold as a factory girl

In an all night cafe

Opening her pipes 

Like an umbrella 

Like a wound 

Congeals the delicate purpose

Of our proximity 

Begins to cough 

And generate a lava

Of neon 

On a rain black street 

Sewing a logo 

On the web of fate 

And I sit here 

Near the eighth shadow 

Of a King who escaped

for good or for ill

from the heat of the battle

From paying the bill.