Heroin Chic / El Cantante Part II

Story of someone very close to me, this is basically an autobiographical poem. My dark secrets all wrapped into one. My darkest sin, Viola.

Viola's red eyes,
Black liner.
Red lips,
Fishnet stockings.

Ultra violent,
Pre-Vanity Fair,
Kate Moss.
Bones on hips,
Spines galore.

Enter,
The 21st Century W***e.
Street walk at night,
Firecracker by day.
Anti-Socialite type
Factory girl.

Eyes black
As bats.
Pale skin
Like a heroin addict.
Grab your legs,
Twist them around.

On the streets,
Safe and sound.
Viola's working
The corner.
El Cantante,
They called her.

Throat full of diamonds,
The remains of her clients.
Bruised neck,
Last night's mark.
Messy hair,
Peroxide touched.

Sedgwick-like
Hysteria.
Gowns from Victorian
Mad houses.
McQueen head to toe.
Hint of sea mermaid
Green.
Erotic glances.

Eye on the target,
Throat full of diamonds
Again.
Remains of her victims.
Lady killer,
Femme Fatale.

Cannot be compared
To a French serial killer.
She was Viola,
Drink all day,
Sniff yayo,
Sell your soul
To the night.

Viola,
"Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?"

Reviews

[Lola]

Beautifully written. The way you are able to cease all your ideas and inspirations into one profound message that stirs my insides, i do not know.
I truly imagine Viola, and her hunger.
Live on, Viola. The nightly streets sing for you.

-- Lola