Ace of Spades

It’s 2:00 on a Tuesday morning in Monaco and you’re frolicking
with the bartender and falling into his sugary arms because

everyday is your sensual holiday and we never have to leave, our
friends with callow eyes, gleeful like wayward cinnamon queens

drunk in candy floss lust. stampeding to the psychedelic soap
bubble beat of a club remix, foreheads with a filmy luster

& limber tendrils sinking in a feathery bouffant.
spidery Dior eyelashes fluttering at pasty cuffs waiting like

arachnids to trap honeycomb in a knobby web of strawberry
ice cream and jukebox laughter. a metropolis of blurry

chandeliers rendered in hungry stares, oh so percussive,
electric scorpions lure with beguiling smiles and gumdrop

violet eyes. stingers pierce skin tinted sepia by Monte Carlo’s
mandarin sun. French venom courses through dark-bloomed ruby and

sapphire veins. you feel a lithe sense of euphoria. is this how it feels
to fly? waltzing down the promenade in blanched camera flash

follow the arrow. white limousines and foreign tongues barking
at us and antique Chevrolets, hair curled like Shirley Temple

dollar bills on the fifth of August taste crisp like coconut wafers
and soften thin as a milky broth. tears on ashen pyramids hidden

masterly by taupe manicured nails. a veiled woman with motorcade
lips like elegant hounds walks in front of traffic, smiling knowingly



Hull, MA

Jennifer Boyd is from Hull, Massachusetts. She enjoys writing poetry and flash fiction. She is also an accomplished pianist.

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