Voila!
A beautiful ******.
Watch the delicate movements;
the serenity of spirit,
the feminine grace in her gait.
She raises a glass of water to her thirsty head,
crystal coolness against youthful lips,
curious tongue.
Vital and charming, she eludes all hunters.
She outsmarts and outruns the vikings who wish
to steal her mojo, her soul.
They want to skin her,
to feel her pelt against bare, sweaty flesh;
they want to mount and stuff her
full of formaldehyde and polyester batting from Wal-Mart.
They want to lock this majestic, innocent creature
in a cell
without padding, only harsh, cold bars
and stare at her nakedness with crooked grins on grimey faces
and **** her of her will to be whole.
Even worse:
they want to love her,
to hold this creature's hands
and write intense poetry of devotion.
These lunatics want to love this poor, hideous beast
who does not want the attention.
She is a monster,
a ******* abbhorred abomination of existence,
and they wish to court her like a little lady.
Pristine. Pure.
But they are only seeing a siren, a mythical form
better left to starve on the jagged rocks of eternity
than to be admired and held in soothing arms.

Heart beating like the RPM of a sleek **** racing car,
wubwubwubwub
drop the bass
my heart, with you
so fast it's still,
like zero degrees kelvin
and 100 degrees hot
in my pants.
Darling would it be obscene
if I told you that you make me scream?
In my dreams,
in my head
you and me for never dead.
Leaps of faith through hoops of fire don't amount to much my dear
unless you're scorched
charred
and blistered as a tender, succulent pig.
Weee weee weee
all the way home we sing
we dance
we drool and chain gang the whole lot of them to the wings of the pretty angel statues,
so rough and hard,
how do they fly?
But we do,
at any given moment, soaring and searching
and we tangle up the tarantulas in their trinity of turbulence
because my god we are for real.

After a few mental miles I was ready to begin.
He took my lips and pressed them to canvas,
leaving behind traces of a mouth that his opinion views as favorable.
The fishy-shaped imprints were soft, red,
and indicated a secret trace of envy.
May I always be your subject?
The focus of your artistic genius and creative drive.
I want to be the molecules in your juices that transfer your thoughts into motion
that makes the beautiful work.
Slick and thick
like blood or oil or ****** secretions
and swim like the dolphins at Sea World,
where we have never been but can only assume contains much majestic movements.
Your hands mold my being like clay,
as Prometheus had done, many years before.
I am your first.
(Though you are not mine)
I inspire the fire
and cause you to steal.
Naughty naughty boy,
your silly perfection makes my insides so tingly
like the sizzling of flaming flesh.
And I wouldn't want it any other way.

We rage
like hormones
like hyenas in heat
and ruin homes
(not on purpose, just on Fridays)
So grown up,
we're so grown up
with our mature parties
and relationship problems.
Look! I'm pregnant!
I'm oh so grown up!
We puke up jello shooters
and mama's meatloaf,
wipe the whithered corners of pale mouths,
smile
giggle
hazy glazy eyes
in smokey basements and tree houses.
Oh no,
I do not promote it
I only smoke it.
But what can we do?
I must be thin to be ****,
drunk to be interesting,
naked to be loved.
We need the skin contact
because God knows we can't communicate by words,
either by tweets
or  haphazard ******* in back seats.
We are so grown up
because we accept the filth,
the naughty,
the concepts that un-rad corporate burn outs can't comprehend.
Wisdom in destruction,
life in suicide.
So allow me to fill my nose with shaymen's powders,
so that I may regress
to the days that I was Daddy's ballerina,
and school yard games lacked dark ****** undertones.

O sing in me muses
a tale of some beauty.
Beauty, meaning longing and sorrow
and love that leads to a ******, bitter demise.
Let me feel the cold sweats,
those breathy, exhaustive evenings
filled with the scent of sweet ripend fruits
and slowly drying paints.
I want to be an inspiration for a piece to hang forever
in limbo
in galleries
in Midwestern living rooms.
I want to hang from  branches in olive groves,
purely Greek
but with Nair and Netflix,
making sweet love to the ideals of ancient existence
while surviving the blackest of plagues
(modern immune systems are a Godsend).
Sing deeply into my rib cage, O muses,
so that my bone marrow may vibrate to the point of explosion
causes fragments of calcium to pierce skin
and make beautiful stained glass on the hill side chapels.

"I'm a big fan of the way you breathe," I said.
He smiled.
Anyone else would be taken aback and thrown my loneliness into my face.
"I appreciate the fact that you exist," I continued.
His eyes looked at my eyes, but that wasn't the whole story. Not quite.
Because once the delicious visual receptors in his gummy pink brain
receive my Natalie signal of recognition,
it's as if his linguistic region wants to talk to the operator in my linguistic region,
and they strike up a lovely lively convo
about colors, and the weather, and how **** fine the oxygen feels today.
He never says much
with his sounds or voice box,
maybe because his voice box is sore,
or maybe because he's embarrassed of his voice,
or maybe still because his neural impulses and chemical signals
can not be properly conveyed with the noises and syllabel patterns found in a human language.
I like to think
that his thinking is so complex yet pure and beautiful
that any other mind could not possibly comprehend or appreciate its magnitude.
I like to think that he has every answer to every inquisition ever;
he is omniscient. Other-worldy.
A religion in his own
who does not wish to save others but to merely observe, unbiasedly
and make me sink into the depths of admiration
and flood my bloodstream with oxytocin.
What a man.

Meet me in my mind,
we both know the way.
Always on time
and bearing gifts of lust and remorse,
shame and excitement
we dissect time and space
and staple  aluminum stars to the night sky
so that we can find a path
leading to the River Styx.
Cold and milky
we drink the water until,
almost bursting,
our bellies hang low to the ants and caterpillars
who climb up and up to tickle our chins
with their many furry feet.

We stop the forward motion of history
to pick the tiny blooms and pistils
off of dainty little flowers to prevent
their future disappointments
and arguments with offspring.

Oh how lovely,
in this darkness with its lightness,
to be inhaling your spirit
your you-ness
and all that you have experienced
to make my soul smile for a moment
and forget the pitiful nature of all else.