In Wonder much your Sore Barrels invade
From Whirlycoxed Dames do Insure your Vote
Or Bribes the Fortunate Rascals evade
Saw no other Buttons to Press your Note
So Truth bends the very Patron decide
Carry on the Labours of your Booned Mass
Though Protests trim for another Subscribe
Let all Porned Bobbies allow you to Pass
That your Room - now a Museum convert
Never which Knowing which Prudent Tile step
Then again - as rugged as Granite your Shirt
Stain its Ghostly Essense on your Precept.
Would there be News? Doubt to my Knowledge based
My Cheques duly Crossed and left to Moons chased.

old makeup spilled on my floor
dirty clothes strewn on my floor

You can hardly see the carpet for all the clothes carelessly being trodden on. Blue holiday lights are strung around the mirror. I am watching Andy Warhol eating a hamburger on a new, thousand dollar laptop, slick-as-a-whistle, paid with a swipe. For the past six months, I have had less than four hundred combined checking and savings, and that number dwindles by the day. I have no groceries, but I've got fistfuls of orange prescription bottles, and I was handing pills out like candy (but they are needed, much and every day).

Where did all these bills come from?
Suddenly, it costs money to breathe.

Eating? Oh pshaw, that costs money, and the store's six blocks away.

I pout on my throne of dirty cotton, thinking I get what I ask for, when I ask, and it always comes--at a price! It's always over a hundred dollars more than I could spare and brings bad luck, moreso than a couple broken mirrors would, even if they were smashed over a the back of your mother's black cat.

"Quick! Let's do designer drugs with the paltry change given by our parents! I wouldn't feel like I wasn't nothing, nothing at all," I say, batting my eyelashes, "Wouldn't they feel proud of our feelings of entitlement to the greater things in life and consciously responsible adult-like decisions?"

I crack open my father's checking account with the swipe of a magnetic strip,
it makes me seem responsible when he sees I just use it for pills and foodstuff.

(I prove I love him and he loves me this way)

Now, together, we will buy strawberries with his money,
they must be four dollars, at the very least, then we eat like the bourgeoisie (!)

I kiss the cheeks of my reflection in the bathroom
tousling my hair, tipsy, as I touch up my face by
licking the tips of eyeliner up like a cat's little tail,
the ends of eyes, coated with eyeliner as black as
my tightest velvet pants and dark, dark heart.

We go together.

You should move to a big city
and I'll come call, prepaid, with
a voice that is thick and ripped,
chattering of sugar-white beaches
as I cross the seas all on a plane,
all the while drunk on red wine,
twirling my fingers around, with
bags under eyes, a little anemic

(I think it adds to the glamour)

We will go out to a dimly lit place
We will go out dancing then after

I will put on dab perfume under my ears and on my wrists,
I will wear black tights for pants, but first, do a little cocaine
and you will fasten the clasp on my silver necklace tonight,
while I smoke, before helping me put on my favorite fur

And we will go see Andy, at the factory
I hear he's doing something
with that Basquiat fellow (!)

I will go follow false luxuries, come with me.
I will gamble with you in Monte Carlo or Las Vegas,
just as long as you pay my rent at $695 per month,
until I die, or something else.

Father called again.
I listened to the message, as usual.
Listened to the scratching of knives on plates. Listened. Listened.

It is noise.
The words, the words you have owed me
for twenty three years, father: they do not come. What I want is for you to be sorry.
For the epiphany to f
                                      a
                                     l
                                       l
upon you like rock.
How could you, for all these years, feel alive,
when so many nights I waited,
crying, at the door,
my young hands clawing at the glass?
You lied, you stole from me, by omission.
And now, I wander from man to man, 
filling your bitter shoes with dissapointments,
tar-black, and weather-worn.

Daddy, why must they all love like you love?
Why must they all stink of you
and wear your clothes and talk
as though they are gods?
I survived you, but evil, too, has a thousand faces.
The anti-hero.
It is you, isn't it? Underneath all those masks?
It is you,
with your bloodshot eyes.
It is you.

The perfect moment in time
Snapshot
Of
The perfect rain.

Trickles out of clouds

Creates the tune
Pit pat
Pit
Pat
On the brick
The road
The grass
Pit pat.

Fence drops drips that try to hang on.
Drip drop
Drip
Drop

The perfect smell
Of water in the air.

My corner of the world
Peaceful
Perfect
Rain