mona lisas and mad hatters

 she is smiling, obviously.

some think smelling a fart,

others seducing, one part 

lady macbeth, another 

courtesan, and also,

God.

she is not giving up,

eternally framed,

and yet, someday

dust, ether, a carbon

of a carbon of a print-out

of a rendition, swallowed 

up by the last black hole.

maybe it’s this that has 

her smirking, come hither,

in on the joke.

she knows it’s all going 

to hell and she laughs,

invites you in.

what kind of underwear

does she wear? my hunch

is none, or black lace.

drug? ketamine, stoner,

psychedelics? definitely

not cocaine, she’s too chill/

smart for that.

on the soft bed of her

tongue, contained in her

mildly upturned mouth,

is what taste? 

salt n’ vinegar chips,

swallowed with honeywine?

almonds of eden, caviar,

anchovies, bread? 

the last three beads of wine, 

sucked dry from the carafe’s 

crimson evaporation.

just like that, and she sees.

mad hafta be.