the lights push their tiny twinkling mighty fists through royal orange tinged ozone cloak where in the northernmost cheek of Lady Angeles Her court’s Hollywood sign summons the ghost perhaps to enhance Her downtown hemline where Her proud feet stomp down with fury on the last remaining eyes on Lady Angeles’ head is the jeweled setting sun caressing Her hillside fiery hair to where Her jawline creates a blank mountain ridge as we dive into Her haughty bosom where we die and resurrect in divine light out of nothing my Lady’s balmy metropolitan breath puppeteers Her southernmost palm trees as seen in past centuries by Her tawny Nephilim kept in mad house storage along Her Wilshire Boulevard the miracle mile of all illusions floating down the Vicodin corridors toward Lady’s womb in the Southeast the mercenary birds of her entrance strategize in unison on the stage of the moon circling about a rain dance to the gods below Her river to the prophets of the ghetto cart ascending to one of Her rooftop temples in worship of ancient dark in the age of paradox in the industry of bootleg Immutable Light bowing down to Her in the East a facsimile of the Zeus' and Poseidons' dressed with man-hole crowns virility that is hard to see in the shadows of the sky scraper overlords who protect my Queen from extreme chess games designed to lose Her head in the hills of Beverly Lady Angeles’ fortress nestled in the end of civilization lies at Her feet in glory to Her beauty only if i look inside of me