So Unjust

Ragged keloids punctuate
her arms and back
and no tack nor method mine,
thinks Charles,
though Hippocratically designed
(from heart),
is Art and craft enough
to heal what wounds
Time and Sun and body-bright
cannot quite anneal.

For little more
than luckless shattering
are mirrors good,
declaims she detestably
as about her scarified lip
a smattering of what once could
be a smile called does play;
a decrepit frame
for a nic-stained,
truly tortured tangle
of fucked-up teeth.

In the cramped,
un-fanned quarters
they poorly populate,
no relief's around,
the relentless wave
of hellish heat
( a Void of cool)
reigns as Charlie-fool
takes the pains
and shares and sheds
what little light
his marred heart/mind's
managed to keep,
ain't yet lost, or's found.

Sees he little result
his demonstrative cares,
which kiss/caress
along the length of scars,
have upon the mirthless girl-
or none at all.

She mutters, smokes and paces,
lives through drug-dreams daily,
weaves the nightmare-dare
a switchblade twirling at,
extracting from the celebrity faces
she's torn from faded tabloids
and slapped upon the humid wall.