French vanilla Converse,
  taupe-boxed flannel (too big),
and an American Spirit burning,
  real, real slow. What a hipster ****;
what a culture-eating parasite.
  He says, 'Read Proust with me.'
He says something about how
  his dad is dead but not in
a literal sense; metaphorically.
  I was never interested in that part
in the avant-garde spoken poetry Friday nights.

  I bust into the bathroom
and *****, grasping
  Bed Bath and Beyond clearance items.
The walls are the same shade
  of green as my skin.
A hand pets my thigh and I'm told
  it'll all be okay.
How those knuckles knew,
  I'll never know.

Bullet-hole chest
Me, a girl with parts missing
You, a smile with a smoking gun
caught in a war zone of I still love you
Refugee to the emotions that still hold me sway
Gentle as you killed me,
Kind at the slaughter
I died with tears drying on my face
And lips still shaped to kiss you
I never even saw the knife

dug up my own bones, what
a shock, from the soil. found
myself amidst the roots and
stones, tangled up, not an act
of fiction or faith. just position.

and, so, turned to the wrought
ligaments of my jaw, i asked
"why were we buried so
shallow?". but, bones don't speak.
history is nameless and without
sight. we stand on the precipice
of a crumbling tower, and, down
in the cellar, ferment languages
unspoken. hands in pockets,
well, i wandered down,
expressionless, steps ringing
hollow on the uncatalogued
leaves of stairs, and drank deep
of tongues untouched. and such
are all knowings. and god knows
i learnt next to nothing, but that the
sun always rose. that lovers spurned
each twilight, waiting.

and for all of the square meters
grown up in glades everlasting,
for all the soil tilled and grass
come back brighter, my shoes
were all the muddier, my eyes
were full of eternal shine, my
****** heart was healin'. the
sky was only blue.

If I told you you're too chunky,
That you need to lose some weight,
Would you take my word as gospel?  
Mold yourself to fit my taste?

If I told you,  wear more makeup
Your skin is way too flat,
Would you hide your true reflection?
Behind a powder ridden mask?

If i said your "tastes" are tasteless,  
Would you offer up that too?
Would you hide your true desires,  
And all that makes " you"  you?

If I said to join the masses,  
To act and look the same,  
Would you try the hottest mind *****?
Would you treat life as a game?

If I told you,  be more willing,
Would you lay upon your back?
For if you wish to catch a tiger
You must offer up a snack

Would you follow the suggestions
Of a stranger you can't see?
Is that not what we're all doing,
To fit in with society

With eyes as pure as water
And hair as red as the sweet sunset
With a figure like that
Do you not see my heart beguiled

Do not bestow then, your gaze upon my tired eyes
Do not speak to me, in a voice as dainty as flowers
Do not dance around me in so charming a fashion
And do not say nice words

Unless you are willing to receive my passionate and unconditional love
Stop breaking my heart

.
Rose of your ear,
Lantern in your eyes,
Forest of branching hair,
In Inverness of your midlands,
I shall broach lit vernal deltas,
Kiss deep into darkling depths,
Climb the leaved trunks of thigh,
Drunk in the moisted, muted sighs
Of promise, tendered to surrender,
I shall know your ripened *******,
As bloom of moon paints moons
At night, I will be ****** in milk—
That offers itself to leeching babe,
With little, lithe fingers you rake one,
A wan vagabond, *****, homeward,
I shall know your flowing wetness,
Below my desert, with purpose,
I am lost, in sleep and dream,
May I never wake, may I
Sleep, never, may eye
Always open, keep
In tableaus of oil,
Strokes, hues,
Glittering
Of you.

As the world defends itself from the anxiety of death,
a wind-caressed woman waits by the water,
and signals for silence, unceremoniously.
Waiting for the blood-banks to breed ideals --
which will, inevitably, be exported --
that will turn Natives into faceless, finger-painted  
neo-orphans of the broken nuclear home;
old souls, convinced to be the youth in revolt,
and to be the scrambled egg individuals of a melting ***, that disguises uniform for diversity.

Her lavender dress dribbles the spiraling air, as the copper dust swims by her ankles, knees, and thighs.
I do not remember when she told me that everything we do and say is a defense-mechanism,
distracting us from the fact that one day we will die and be as imaginative as the roles we give ourselves,
as the people we think blend into us,
and as the gods we use as an alternative to a morphine drip.

I stood by the bad river, knowing that all of my attempts at being more than what I was,
was my grasp at an out-of-reach eternity,
and a dream of a humanity that could be affected by one person.

I do not remember when she told me,
"All of our attempts at progressing,
is our way with dealing that we will someday die
and may not have been successful at living forever."