thorn in my side/rose-bed

the Polaroid opposites sift through
a waterlogged heart-
flashing before your eyes
the gem revealed, shaken to life
(the sahara sieve eyes- dripping vials)
before a bone-white border, pictured imperfect
(the cameramen lose their focus)
now pinned to dry
in these new developments
-the bottom line-
contained in her frame, the impossible task
of facing it
stood up for the last time-
or hung by a pink nail
above a bed
its own rotting frame beneath
threatening to collapse
all colours and sheets supported
by those beams
angelic angles crossing
and spun by melodic spiders
their own legged portrait centered
and self-centered
but before that glass chest
that had fogged under her breath
and cracked under the pressure
all that heat
and all those temperaments
slipped as we between
the sheets
and those four posters-
the petal pictures weep in the sunlight
and bloom
in the soiled rose-bed
of my decomposition.
you really don't get the fanfare you probably deserve around here. this was denser and purpler (purplier?) than your other writing, but you have such a touch for imagery juxtaposition that even when it's just a carousel of pictures it's enjoyable.
I greatly appreciate that- thank you kindly.

density certainly is something I am striving for in my writing now. I believe a great poem is dense while retaining intimacy.