we can worry
about what it
means in words
later

Gigi hopes Madame
Mouton won’t mind her
Trying on her new

Clothes after all when
Will she ever get
To buy such garments

And Madame has so
Many anyway
Surely, she would not

Care, but nonetheless
Gigi knows she must
Be careful not to

Leave any of her
Rather cheap perfume
All over the clothes

And not leave hairs
Or red smudges of
Lipstick. She puts on

The underwear and
Feels on her flesh the
Silky softness, the

Touch next to her skin,
The smoothness which is
So sensual. She

Parades around her
Mistress’s bedroom
Posing in front of

The mirror, trying
Not to imagine
Old Monsieur Mouton

Finding her there, she
Dismisses the thought
Like a naughty child

From a room. She pulls
On the dress and does
Up the buttons at

The back. Easier
Said than done; fingers
Fiddle, too many

Thumbs. Done it. She looks
Back at her new found
Reflection, does a

Turn around. Looks at
Her behind. She stands
Admiring the

Dress. Madame has so
Many; Gigi says,
I have so few. She

Listens. Is that her
Back home already?
Gigi undoes the

Buttons and pulls off
The dress over her
Head and takes off the

Silky underwear
And stuffs both items
Under the bed and

Climbs under herself.
The door opens and
Footsteps enter the

Room. Gigi? Madame
Mouton calls out loud.
Gigi? Where this that

Girl? You can never
Find her anywhere.
Maids, what can one do

With them? They are so
Lazy. Then Madame
Mouton leaves the room

And closes the door
Behind her, calling
Gigi’s name louder

And louder. Gigi
Breathes out and watches
A large black spider

Crawl across her thigh
And holds back with great
Effort the loud cry.

.




His dog is in need of water--

the actor's emaciated.
You'd think he's sacrificed blood,
but the gutter is overrated.

His eyes seek out a bargain
in between the brittle brick.
Just like his toes,
they are cracked and froze...

--- this is not a trick.

Sing an ode to your pin cushion veins
and to your pastel eyes--
these wet city streets are full of broken screams
and unspoken alibis.

I've heard your simple prayers, (yes)
I've smelled the spark's sharp steel stench.
I watched the moon slide across the frost
as you slept on the park's bench.

Trade your bread for a piece of sky
with a madman's son or daughter.
(Yes!) This actor may be unstaged---



but his dog is in need of water.







.

friends sing so sweetly
and I fall in love with the serenade.
it's m
i     s  
l    e   a  
ding
if you act before you think
and then spend all your time thinking about which move to make next.

I think progress starts at two points:
the beginning and the ending.
everything and nothing.

One thing to make me feel something
and another to destroy me.

I've given up on trying to be friendly
and gone straight for that same bitter harsh of honesty
that
got
me
in so much trouble before
that I forgot existed
because I let myself slip
rather than pushing out
what I knew wasn't good for me.

wanting to please everyone.
loving the pleasure in pain,
got lost in it, got distracted,
became detached in the same direction more than once
and became less than I should
                  more than I should.

it's a swallowing of seeds without chewing.
with all this stimulation brewing
around the stitching of my pocket,
crooked lines, a few things slipped out.

marbles in the kitchen, in the bathroom,
on the floor. you carried me up
and down stairs.
cried
when
I
loved
you
and
screamed
when
I
stopped.

But you didn't stop ramming
jamming
jerking
thinking
sneezing
wheezing
leaving
thoughts
behind.

Hel­ping remove your mind
I tried to look inside.
Your ego ****** you into
a black hole of questioning.
Left me answering
that there was nothing left of me.
Found myself in the absence
of bored and forgetful silence.

The ending
is the beginning
for me.

right now
it's all finally happening
right now
the moment's been festering

I've finally finished and I'm free.