Profound profanity, he says, is the key to germination.
But why, I say, would one ever want to procreate?
For the experience, he says, which is about the journey and not the destination.
I can understand this,
it's like riding a bike
a stationary bike
that goes nowhere but see, you're going! Going and going.
I do see
and so does he
so what do we do?
Not a whole lot, just sit and talk of trains and temperature and how pirates walk.
He likes to do litmus tests of our saliva and hang them in the windows for all to see
that we are not acidic, but  on acid, and sometimes a bit base in nature,
like the trees and the crysanthimums and corinthian columns in Greece.
We traveled to Greece, once, on our stationary bike
it was beautiful and real and there was much salt in the air-
they grow olives and fish in the trees
and their water is just teeming with rust.
We put our rust on buttered toast like cinnamon and munched at the oxidized metal,
crunching like captains and cheesin like goats
just a random bunch of fools with our silver and tenticals and suction cups of steel.
We are like robots, fighting crime and boredom with music and shrugs
because frankly my dear we don't give a ram or an aries or any other kind of anything.
We simply do not
because we will not, and refuse, above all else, to sleep without a star in the sky.

Truancy is a ***** with ***** stamps and skunky hair
her constant need to blow smoke up the ***** of those trying to try
is inconvenient at best, irresponsible at worst,
maybe amusing in the eyes of the elders.
Been there, done that
she rolls her eyes and pouts
slits her wrists with carnival glass
so she bleeds the multi-dimensional colors imperceivable to  human eyes,
an entirely different color spectrum,
ultraviolet, super violent,
tasty and warm.
This young lady is no lady at all
just a little girl,
vulnerable and scared
and a total ****** *****,
grabbing her ankles and thumping in dumpsters,
pretty little thing,
with scabs and gin
and cute little *** stains.
Leave her be,
this street walking angel
she never learned her lesson,
too swag for education.

Our Father, who art in heaven
I have some confessions.
I am terrified.
Of what?
Everthing.
I break into plague-like bubonic hives when I worry about THE future, my future,
any future because it does not involve any of the nows.
Moments of newness and unclarity, of strangers and distant conversations of topics I know not of yet,
weeks in agony trying to earn money for rent,
days waiting for a sign, in the form of a plus or minus, to dictate whether or not
a parasite grows in my womb.
Father, I sin daily
for I am a glutton
in my eyes.
I see flaws in my appearence,
though no horrible disfigurements exist;
in my thoughts, this is even more unforgivable,
the invention of sorrows that are not mine,
the pitiful desire for perfection.
I feel I do not deserve the wonders that I have.
Grant me the ability to feel secure and grateful
rather than worthless and guilty.
Oh brother, woe is nobody
for all is too good to waste,
yet nearly impossible to entirely feel.

Something subliminal
in the way a man smells;
his odor, his  pheromones,
his testosterone seeping from under his skin
massaging my nasal passages
making me dreamy and sleepy
and tickly inside.
There's a unique quality
so pure and primitive
in the movement of a muscle
accidental
not for show
so private, the tension in a bicep.
It acts without the knowledge of being watched
and would move if no eye were there to witness,
but sometimes
we do
and we see the knobs of strength pulled tightly under skin,
dying to burst through flesh
and reveal masculinity to the sun.
Some kind of trivial beauty in the sweat on a face
after a long day outside
building a fence
cutting grass
tackling an opponent;
the liquid rolls down limbs
out of pores
drips
onto ground, nourishing the grass,
enticing
a nectar caused by labor and struggle,
grunts and power
energy.
Something so simple
in the sight of a male,
sturdy, like a house
a home to be enveloped in,
protected from the elements trying to rust our joints.
The testosterone fuels the movements, the thoughts,
and desires.

His eyes do not register my being
but his mind is buzzing with my existence
I can tell
by the way he stares, stressed, forced into the distance with attention emphasized on peripheral vision.
Oh, I am right here
and he knows this
he is all too aware that I am wearing the pretty blue skirt today,
that the other young men are paying million dollar compliments
that are deposited into our little bank of wins and losses of humility,
one stab at his ego,
one illuminated point on the score board for my courage.
He pretends not to hear
my laugh
when his jaw tenses and he refuses to join this plane of energy
but rather pretends that he is in a dark, sound-proof cell
where he belongs
where I do not want him
because I get a sick little thrill,
a lurch in the sadistic region of my brain
to see him struggle so,
to witness a weakness in his steel, tough exterior.
You have a heart
and it is beautiful.
I want to share this sensitivity
but if you are incapable,
I would like to get a torturous, self-inflicted pleasure
at your lack of interest;
One deep, throbbing dagger in my tender, juicy heart
slow and painful
all for you, my dear.

The years of playing sleepover in the parents' house are ending rapidly
I must now grow up.
I am no longer a young child, but an aging kid, growing older and older
until water gun fights and Hello Kitty are no longer acceptable
but creepy, immature,
and unseemly for the candidate of an office position.
The rules of hallways, bell schedules, bathroom passes
are obsolete
in T-minus
how long? Too long? Too soon?
Somewhere in the in-between, if I had to make a publicly educated guess.
What happens when I step off the magic carpet
and into the lecture halls with faceless classmates,
bespeckled, bearded professors
who do not care if success is granted?
Will I fall down those steps?
Will my mind become quick drying cement
rather than glue
and trap all ability to think in the concrete with imprinted initials and cracks with grass growing?
I do not know my own future, and it is terrifying
panic-attacking
stealing my REM and disturbing my circadium rhythm.
All to do now is sit, and wait
for fate to catch up with my worries.

Not a biological accident, I breathe with purpose
sipping in the ethers and spirits
chakras and energies
smoke and incense.

I am no fool, only inexperienced,
and really,
can you fault the naive?
We don't know what we're missing,
let alone can feel the gaping emptiness that the aware  suffer to know,
and sometimes
I rather enjoy being utterly incoherent and oblivious of reality.
Not dumb just numb.

I do not require much, only sunlight, oxygen, dirt
and ofcourse guilty pleasures
chocolate
fashion magazines
shirtless rugby players.

I am no cosmic miracle
only a human who deserves respect and decency,
a mix of my mamma and my dad and a bottle of Merlot
shaken and popped in an Easy Bake Oven
I am just a little old me and a little old maid
and I can only learn to accept such facts.

There are instances of my brain exploding into millions of rubbery blobs of mush.
Sometimes my mind leaks through miniscule cracks in my skull
caused by incredulousness, or intensity,
or a milisecond of  thought that traveled far too close to the realm of insanity.
Blessed be he who can not think, for he can not feel frustrated.
He will not try, or object to the rules of laws of that which is taken for granted,
claimed to be known as fact
even though we all can see it's *******.
Once, I even died a little bit, seeing a bird floating in the sky,
because it was just too magnificent and startling a phenomenon to be handled lightly:
these miracles of nature that don't require formal lessons or user manuals printed in multiple languages.
Blow my mind, **** it real good and share a cig afterwards.
My cranium can handle enough
but not all
and it prefers the experience
of profound enlightenment.

Father time abuses his starry-eyed children until lips split,
bruises leave teachers feeling uncomfortable and unnecessarily involved.
Drink up the rocket fuel,
burning makes aches evaporate like **** on pavement,
amending memories until they are only fuzzy recordings of grinning cartoon cats.
Smiles are happy, so true,
but mirrors do not act on impulse so yours must require some more work,
mine was slashed on eons ago,
back when the dinosaurs were glorious and people walked on all fours.
Grindgrindgrind
gnashing teeth and splintering calcium,
he took note of the emotion,
accepted
and moved along,
unharmed by reality
too ignorant to accept absurdity.
A smart lad, curious
he built me a tug boat
to tug along the rivers of consciousness
though I'd rather the alternative
of sweet sweet bliss
and a fistful of throats.

He was none too cute
even in the dark,
the flashing indigo and yellow lights showing the hint of  possible redeeming ****** features.
Me thinks he was high,
me knows I was low,
down,
mind stuck in the muck thinking on a silly boy.
He appeared interested in dancing,
and hell, I love to dance
so we did.
I meekly allowed his hands on my waist
they were unintrucive, innocent even, right?
The sensation of man bones on my jeans was exhilerating and unfamiliar
and I felt so inexperienced but willing to learn;
the door to male touches had been opened and I never wanted to remember life before.
My body responded without the instruction of logic,
only feeling,
and I wanted to make him burn.
He, the nameless figure with ******* dragon chest tattoo and nasally voice;
he will not forget this great dancer.
And I did not forget
the one I tried to escape:
the one who would rather dance alone
than with me.

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.

I think you disgust me
(most likely)
because I do not wish to enjoy you.
I chastise myself and my poor judgement
every time you cause that dreaded ***** smile on my lips.
And yet
it continues.
I think you instigate my anxiety
because your manners and unnecessary attentiveness
make my stomach squirm
in a most grotesque way
and I feel that I do not deserve such respect from such a sweet soul.
Oh, if I could,
I would hate you.
I would say terrible things to others,
but it'd be all lies
because you are all anyone could ever desire ,
a tragic example of how every male should behave.
I feel so inadequate, so vulnerable,
so terribly close and alone with you
that I must shove a barrier between us
and lust for a boy
who's as distant and hurtful
as me.

So you think I'm cool, huh?
Witty.
Lovely.
What gives you the right to form those opinions?
Who are you to enjoy my presence?
If you really knew my desires,
my thoughts,
you'd know I'd rather be left alone.
Actually,
I'd rather be mauled by rabid tigers
than see the appreciation on your face
or to hear you laugh at my words.
They are not for you,
none of it is.
You can be mine
if you wish,
but I can never be yours;
I would cease to be myself.
I'd be smothered and sweaty,
and really,
I just want to drive as far away in the opposite direction
windows down
hair slicing my face
until you no longer exist.

Today
when your fingers were almost grazing my thigh,
and you were leaned in,
and I could hear your passion in my ear....
when your eyes emitted blatant tension to my pleasure receptors
and I could only breathe to keep from losing consciousness,
all I could think of
is how restrictive clothing is,
and how your skin would feel otherwise.

Why, hell-oh Mr.Insecurity.
You look so attractive today,
much better than myself.
Your omniscient grip around my larynx is comforting,
you know,
comforting in the way that a tumor won't abandon you;
like a frenemy, a parasite,
feeding off of your good ideas and healthy tissues.

I love you
Mrs. Unknown Future.
Your surprises are so comical,
like a whimsical double homicide
and I am a mere rubber-necking piece of evidence
in your routine.

Dreary little Lonely comes along
stealing all the fun we weren't having.
Why must one be so selfish
with that which does not exist?
Not in spirit, nor in form,
not even in feeling or sound.
Just robbing one of the possibility of a maybe idea.
What if I wanted love?
Or a moment with the warmth of a grandma's homemade cookie.

You all rob me of the concepts I can not comprehend,
because i can not feel.
That is only a wish,
a lie,
because I do feel, too much,
but can not figure out
how to make you all leave me  a sane homosapien.

We sit
and chat
and my heart feels like an excited baby bird
grasping at regurgitated worm carcus.
We walk
your arm hairs graze my own follicles;
my belly oozes all kinds of warm lovely juices.
Is this love?
Inexperience?
Or am I resisting your prying affection?
You are much too nice
to be seen with the likes of me.