1.
Black lace strangulates,
Pushes powder-white skin
Into itself,
Condensing and leaving red marks
On snowy ground.

2.
The girl was plain,
An apple shape and no curl
To her hair;
With a kink to the mare,
Femininity is tamed and perfection reached.

3.
Smiling men in big top hats,
Grinning clowns who look like rats
Peer down at women,
Squeezed and twisted
Into shapes that please the mice and men.

4.
Like putty pulled too many times,
Stretched and cracked with graying lines,
These women snap,
These women break,
There is little more to take.

5.
"Liberation!" they scream into the day,
Light streams down like tears
Onto each face;
Only the Sun shall lament
For their years of repression.

Enlivened right with boughs of rage,
Through ****** thoughts and untouched page,
These eyes glare on with secret fire
Of anger, hindsight and dark desire.
I see how my cards often lie,
The same as poor and cast-off die;
A triple fit of numbers unbalanced
(They never quite
Fit in
To their slots.)
Perhaps I've gone a-raving mad,
Perhaps my mind's just gone a tad
Too in-depth into mundane things,
Making all the mole hills into kings.
Perhaps these worries are overdone,
In thin and fragile worry spun
To exotic, antiquated feelings
Of anger, envy, and revenge reeling.
Perhaps we spin these fates too hard
(They never meant
To hurt
My self image).
But still, I feel my mind a-flame
With hidden anger hard to tame
To society's cold, repressing style
Of crinkled eyes and facsimile smile.
Try to hold it back but fail;
It lands on them like a beached whale,
Stinking, rotting, putrefying,
Slowly, surely, swiftly dying.
This rage I had has bubbled down
Into nothing more than a thin frown,
For held back, harsh, with iron words
(Your secret dreams
Are just
Boiling curds.)

I can't stop this
Jittering of the wrists,
Maniacal half-splat
Splutterings of the gist.
1 and, 2 and, 3 and,
Up and down again,
1 and, 2 and, 3 and
Works 'til measure ten.
I cut down time,
And do it once more;
1 and, 2 and, now chime,
Notes shatter on floor.
I splitter,
I splutter,
While Mister
Just mutters
My horrible,
Dreadful mistakes;
One more take,
So try it again.
1 and, 2 and, 3 and,
Jee jee, eff eff, eeh,
1 and, 2 and, 3 and,
See see, eff sharp, bee.
Ay, bee, ay-
F SHARP
SCREAMS THE OFT WRONG HARP
OF JITTERING FINGERS
AND PIANO FARTS ENRAGED
WHILE MOVING UP AND DOWN
WHITE AND BLACK KEYS
FURIOUSLY ENGAGED.
BUT CUT THE TIME
AND DO IT AGAIN.
1 and, 2 and, 3 and,
Keep thumb under hand,
1 and, 2 and, 3 and,
Though left hand's undermanned.
"More fingers, more,"
It sputters into the night,
While sore fingers, sore,
Start a whole new blight.
1 and, 2 and, 3 and,
Now 4 and
Rest.
Everything is winding down,
Flushing away into soft,
Pianissimo serenades
Of sweet, sweet See-
BUT BEE FLAT
MAKES SEE RATS
EAT THEIR MOLDY FLESH,
BECAUSE BEE FLAT
TO SEE RAT
MAKES EVENING NOT SO FRESH.
Piano farts,
Just do it again.
1 and, 2 and, 3 and,
Now 4 and
Rest;
Second time through
Makes it the best.

Notice me,
Turn your head and
Look at me.
I want your eyes to
Absorb my figure,
To engulf
My entire being;
I want my presence
On every iota of
Sentient thought
You may possess.
Notice me,
Say the words to
Mesmerize me.
I watch you while
You play your violin
Everyday,
Black-chaired,
Snide,
It ends at 10:55,
Sharp.
I can feel
My heart strings squeak
As resin can't even
Make it sing,
Telling you
Everything neatly,
Metered,
In time.
Notice me,
Open your ears and
Hear me.
I think of you
When nobody
Else is around,
When safety comes
To blanket me in
A shroud made from
My own shame.
I dream of you
When I'm not even here,
Lost in the darkest
Reaches of dreamy
Sleep,
Restless by your image.
I yearn for you
Even when I am spent,
Dried up
And exhausted,
Yet I still bow down
To the throne
Of your thought
And humbly worship
My feelings on fire,
Burnt as an offering
To your gods
Of affection.
All I ask in return
Is for you to
Turn your eyes
And tolerate me.

Maggots wiggle around
on the ground,
squirm,
shiver
despite the bright,
mid day rays
of amber penetrating
their coelomate bodies.
They are
Sectioned off,
Dissected according to
Volume,
Mass,
Amount,
Worth,
Originality,
Attraction.
We put them in pickling jars
High on a shelf.
Close the door,
Lock the lock
And send the key
To rot unremembered
In our stomachs.
These memories
Of maggots
Rest not in our minds
But rather
Our stomachs.
We digest them
After we ****** them,
As breakfast
Always comes before
Ravaging.
However,
the memory lives on
in nostalgic bubbles
of hydrochloric acid
and pH under 3
in walls of flesh
not quite dissolved;
each section
still tastes
the same as it felt
when it lived on the surface,
wiggling on the ground.

I have bad dandruff
And oh gosh my feet don't dance,
But Lord does my heart.
I can feel it fire-stepping away
On red-hot ants abound
In this anthill of a school.
Stacked molecule to molecule
In undeveloped hives and grottoes not financed,
Forgotten subterranean in the failing facilities
Of a school underbudget are the insects,
The maggot-child students who wriggle
And worm their way from pest to drone,
Caught up in fates not fully grown.
Queen comes down from throne up low,
Where creatures come and villains go,
Slow moving in their ridiculous pace
Of immense inhuman waste.
These people come and itch their heads
(For lice these make most perfect beds),
Made sick in clinic ***** and small
While countless others roam the halls.
I scratch my head and snow, fast, falls,
Though white are floors and bleached are walls.
Cacophonous laughter soon erupts
Volcano bursts from ant-like huts
Of dirt and cave and molecule
Which packs us austere ants in school.
To you poor slaves of Mother Queen,
Who hates to think and hates to dream,
I say, "Have faith, eyes down high,
Though Queen's abode may up low lie.
Look, I lie at the bottom of the chart,
Though way up high in place of heart.
You think these feeble strata last,
From age to age and pasts not cast?
You think when all will leave these halls
That anyone will remember the *****,
That white will be those same walls
That mockingly, to you, still call?
Youth does not ever stay,
No matter nay nor if you pray;
All kids become oppressive Queen
And forget their wild and childish dreams
Where ants go to school and snow comes from hair
And not a single ant can bear
How they recall this place they mark,
Lost in caverns winding and dark.
I may not dance but I still see
How things in future times will be."
These words exit with black contrast,
"Nothing here will last."

Hypocrite,
Hypocrite am I.

Cruel nature
plays the harshest games,
the fire-on-the-Cuyahoga,
****-splatter brain busters.
The city is cooled by her
harsh and horrifyingly
Maternal touch.
Snow falls attractively
on the dying city below,
picaresque and perfect
in this last-winter scene.
The two sky scrapers
pierce through winter's
frozen cocoon,
though envelop will be the
less threshed land.
Slums are ravished in snow,
spoiled by the cold
cold cold crying
of a maiden not warm.
I am buried beneath
layers of snow,
reddened when paled,
angered by my cooling.
Numbing comes with this
frenzied freeze,
like the kids down the street
who grow out their beards
even though they can't
grow their *****.
I am numbed
despite the fact that
Feeling is fruitful;
cruel nature does not wish
for such connections
to fall upon me.
Perhaps it is love,
and I would love to believe so,
that causes her to covet-
no, hoard me so.
Perhaps it is love,
and it so clearly is ringing in this numb numb numbness,
that causes her to bury me
in mountains of snow.
I am counting down the time
til my melt down,
as spring is not so long away.
Perhaps it is love,
and the rising flowers whisper it like jealous children oft do,
that she has always been
so deathly afraid of.
This is the spring of our love,
But we are not as springy as we should be.

Hypocrite,
Hypocrite am I.