My Poetry Phantasmagoria: Egress polished brass & looking glass door, spectral pale thus step neath resplendent ray-ban scorching sun.
'Tis flaming dawn o' Icarus, whereas penumbras ne'er cast nor written upon star lit sidewalks.
Megalopolis by the Bay, lofty hills & venture glance doth stare through fingers o' handless gloves, doth survey needles & heat haze hallucinations.
Apprehension ratiocination doth traverse inordinate. How pocket timepieces doth meet thy way o' lavender grandmother's.
For eons doth utterance forth o' charcoal paisley waistcoats gelid suave elegance, three-piece Italian suit replete, immaculate 57 Chevrolet pale blue Bell-Air.
Fine liveried chauffeur doth pull forth to the fore, a world o' iconoclast, Bel Air luxuriant Estates, LA subterranean nights o' style & Haight-Ashbury mornings.
Satire o' polyester acrylic dresses taut. Bell flowered skirts & for She, doth turn face away a holographic future o' untruths.
She straightens stocking pencil lines & diamanté chic. Thou forgotten childhood, labyrinthian recollections o' Machiavellian jesters & much deleterious blood.
Pearls heavy, gentle doth play, Her pale manicured fingers abhorred, instead titular gray flannel suits, cigarette holders, crow snow tracks upon polished chrome.
Transcendent lucent hopes, yet, as if cosmopolitans, salt memories falls party invites discontinuance doth drip from guilt white envelopes.
Eons spectate o' silver screen motion pictures, Vogue Theatre, Sacramento street, 'tis past boarded repositories, stores & cafés.
1930s cracked black & white movies unoccupied last blank screen,
Leather gloved chauffeur Mercedes-Benz chrome lip gloss whilst mirrored Mary Jane Heels, swapped a two-tone brogue.
Finally…disappointment all & any figures, times zero still doth hold naught but zero!
Hitchcock, '56, “The Wrong Man”, star Vera Miles doth commence slick debonair upon unashamedly ice-cold Cherry Cola, straw a titanic handrail o' ruination.