With Bambi eyes all aflutter, I drink from the well of men.
A paper lantern hangs from every bloody coat hanger.
Under the cloak of 6 am, I am to be born again.
Lost in a June bug cocktail, I fall for a Parisienne.
He bought me roses, and I threw them in anger.
With Bambi eyes all aflutter, I drink from the well of men.
You know, I think about you every now and then.
For a red-blooded man, you were placid in manner.
Under the cloak of 6 am, I am to be born again.
To my dirty photographs, you would say très bien.
Rubbing coconut rum into skin, I would yammer.
With Bambi eyes all aflutter, I drink from the well of men.
Darling, I need you like I need goddamn medicine.
Inside a chrysalis, I preach grief-stricken slander.
Under the cloak of 6 am, I am to be born again.
You left me with echoes of Non, je ne regrette rien.
With starry thighs and coal miner skies, I languor
With Bambi eyes all aflutter, I drink from the well of men.
Under the cloak of 6 am, I am born again.
Courtenay S. Gray is a writer from the North of England. You’ll find her work in an array of journals such as A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Misery Tourism, Expat Press, Red Fez, Hobart, and many more. She will often post on her blog: www.courtenayscorner.com
Twitter: @courtenaywrites
Instagram: @courtenaywrites