Tiresome
barriers
separate.

Man labels
to escape
a moment.

Tangible
barriers
manifest

keeping us
from learning
the moment.

She's cold* but she needs a fix to warm
Her shattered body withered away from strange
men stuck in a world were make up
is a good enough I.D. so she plays in the snow
A little longer no one dares utter *Merry Holidays
carrying bags filled with goodies for good kids
Who only undress for a bath Shes no sweet piece of pie
It seems everyone knows shes a bad kid though seeking
goodies only handed off in hotel rooms with
water stained ceilings her heart beating to bed springs

She's cold but she needs to make a dollar or two
more to get a flake on her tongue unfeed yet
if everyone knew she was sent here to stay
with a uncle she never knew lived up here
For the holidays another sacrifice for her mom's
Christmas tree habit

She's cold Yet she has to make a snow angel
tonight to feel like she's not just a girl apart of
a group of sixth who sit in between client time
imagining what high school would be like
if daddy would let them attend just
to feel as clean as class room desk

She's cold but its just the right temperature
for her to collapse another vein from pressure
of snow falling to fast for her to move Shivers recede

She's cold but she cant move her body up
in a way feeling a high faster then her arms can spread
wide and her legs can seem to move outward numb

She's cold but she knows in this dead end alley
Only hands of thieves will move her so she closes her
eyes and on Jesus's Birthday feels no more cold
Because snow angels go home to heaven?

Night wears colours very dark.*

*~Marian~

Before guns wore make-up,
We used to put pennies in our socks
So we’d always walk on the root of all evil.

Now Wall Street angels frolic through satellite clouds borrowed
from youths educated by universities of smoke and plastic bags.
                  
(The tears of a child are homage to the waning gods)
For in a day not far away,
Over the painted moon of the Morning Son,
The sun will rise wearing the finest war scars money can buy.

And the screams of humanity will be heard from Venus,
Forgetting that the reciprocal of   L-I-V-E   itself  is     E-V-I-L
And perhaps death is the life meant to be lived.

is that what poetry has become?
your eyes are like clouds
her heart hurts
roses and thorns-
stop punishing me with your incompetence,
with your ignorance,
feel something and give it to me
in more than one language.
if i don't feel every syllable
coursing through my body
in all the wrong ways
(you're a thunder storm, baby,
you're a forest fire under a full moon)
then it isn't worth my spit.
give me something filthy.
have a couple drinks and tell me how
raw you feel then.
peel back each layer
of your broken soul
and show me what you got.
it's not about love,
it's not about lust,
it's about how deep you can dig
when you know you're about to hit rock bottom.
give me something filthy
and write your name all over it.
write my name, too.