I seek no poetry,
poetry is for the dead,
Men still want a dead wife
And for his dinner his wife's head

My leaves of clothes of wool and nicities
Are my cunning way to lure you into the future
The future starts with I,
F is for fathers who are mothers in disguise

Dear men, Dear Sir
I do not seek to abide your faith,
To be women is not about my *******

Sit down young man, you sound like a cat cry for a wolf's tale
You joke around about my future
When you are a joke as well

You push a girl child into another man's eyes
And then cry about a feminists' tale
You rupture her nurture, make her La Lorona,
See her haunt you in your dreams

DEAR SIR, NO NEWSPAPERS,
NO BUTLERS FOR YOUR SEAMS,
No man's cry is a woman's dream!

Peace be with you and your picket fence of excrements!

"Et tu Brutus?" The heavens sighed
My soul was cast to depths united,
Where angels fell, with wings unmade,
'Twas her who held the serpent's *****

She called me forth to her dark bed,
Where shadows whispered of the dead.
I was the Lion, fierce and wild,
She was the lamb, a fallen child.

Yet in her eyes, no soul I found,
But voices that in madness drowned.
How dare she rise where angels weep,
And through my heart her poison creep?

The Mind, a storm, gate of fire,
Where Heaven's breath and Hell conspire.
The ancient ones, they wept and spoke,
Of mankind's curse, its sacred yoke.

My soul, no beast of earth's domain,
I cast aside the primal chain.
"Though art no man, but God's own wrath!"
The stars cried out along the path.

"Et tu Brutus?" the stars repeat,
As serpents coil beneath my feet.
'Twas she who struck with heaven's *****,
In innocence, my soul betrayed.

The rolling guilt in fiery flame,
The ancient war, the endless blame.
I stood as Satan's child reborn,
In light and darkness both I'm torn

My cat had 9 lives,
He gave 8 to my willingness to create impossible cuisines
of leek, onion, wanton, bone and whiskey
and 3 more to hand my flight to Dublin,

To meet the poets and see why they are dead,
To feed me soup that my grandmother made
A unique blend of garlic and potatoes that were green
And chicken broth and her picture, amongst other things,

She looked weary
As though it would rot
She smelled my soup
And said it wasn't hot

I can't make the soup
I can only pour a double shot.

Well surprise, surprise,
You were right,
drawers up my sleeve, move away from the cars
Do not step into the light

You were right

You were right about the Earth,
The grasses are fois gras and carbonated cats
The men were ghastly, they sleep on mats
The bazaars are noisy, the jobs are cruel

I am too broke to afford fuel

In these harsh economic catastrophic millenial hyperbolic cholera meddled opera of mice,

You were right father dear,
You were right.

I looked at my knees and knuckles of black,
I looked at my face, my eyes were sad
I looked at the ship sinking in the garden,
And just when I stepped in the road,
I saw these meadows of sheep and pubs of glee
Some drunk widowed man
Wanted to marry me
And I said to him
"My father was right, You are a disgrace get out of my sight"
And as he lowered his wife,

He said I had my father's eyes.

I'll probably call it sickness,
sickness of the mind,
the wrath of terrible timings,

I freaked out at escapades,
kind of a terrible night,
we are two people,

We don't want each other in our sights.

I am sick of it kindly,
Good sir, I will shapeshift into your complaints
I will be invisible and unsociable and kind of insane.

These pills aren't doing me any good
They are cheap from the local goodwill
They are made of rainbows and **** stained thoughts
And still I swallow them gladly.

I wonder how in a forest fire,
I walk with naked arms,
Take a spin,
give me a pill
Let me fight with your naked guns.

There was an Indian tale,
About the Indian sap,
Delicately wounded, delicately jabbed,
precariously tender, ostentatious sad
She was the Indian child of doom,
Her poetry was bitter and bad.

She wrote poems about the famine,
the *** of the crazy and the kind,
Often wrote about dreamers and pirates
And of the ill of the mind

Years and years have gone through,
She has yearned for the Odyssey of the great,
But all she wrote was the depression,
the depth, the sorrows and the hate.

She had written about the men
She had not known about,
She forgot their names, Mike or Rick
Or about the one that was stout

Well, what about the one that had hurt you,
Oh wait, all of them did,
This wasn't a circus or a mayhem
Or a story or a gist

She wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote
Till she could write no more
She realized she never knew herself
She was alone on the dance floor.