Aphrodite lit another torch,
watched smoke gather, dissipate
faster than mortality
in the pretty afterglow of war,
of mossy islands, unkempt beds,
cute lives blind-folded.
She had time enough to kill
a quiet night at home, brooding
on the nature of volcanic ash.
The torch burned low – like him;
she ground it out on her favourite iris,
delighted at how petals fold and fry.
Geraldine patched up her wound,
the latest in a city of bad luck;
she lit a cigarette, watched
smoke whirl and weave
slower than the time it took
to self-destruct in loathsome beds
though vibrant chaos promised
otherwise … come closer, now
The cigarette burned low – like her;
she ground it out on her arm,
enchanted that she felt – nothing