Perfect body proportions
Totally magazine hot.
Two percent body fat.
Bone structure of a god.
An hour workout daily
Jogging or the gym.
Specimen of health
Neither fat nor slim.

A high-dollar hairstyle
Nothing out of place.
The finest of products
Moisturizing the face.
Clothes from the proper
Stores with the right names.
Never take a chance on
Discount shopping games.

And, don’t forget the shoes
They have to be just right.
One set of shoes for daytime
And another for the night.
Not just any socks, either.
They must be picked with care.
You can’t be caught with
The wrong socks out somewhere.

Once the apparel is suitable
The grooming done just right
It’s quite all right to be seen
In public, day and night.
Otherwise the right people
Might trigger your worst fears
By thinking you were shopping
At Walmart, Kmart and Sears.

Justin Bieber is no big deal
I’m not even sure he is real.
He started out as pretty decent
Have you seen anything recent?
He looks like a kid who is trying
To join the gang but is only crying;
Sitting on the sidelines sniffling.
Dressed up in gang stuff and everything.

Poor baby Justin, as rich as a king
Isn’t quite satisfied owning everything
Has to cover up his body with tattoos
Like all the real-life gang members do.
Wears a hat too big for him all sideways
Plays in the sandbox where big kids play.
Wants to look all gangster and rough
But looking like a lesbian makes it tough.

Poor Baby Biebs with his millions of fans
Three pairs of underwear and baggy pants
Grinning like he’s bashful, we know he’s not.
Far too often he has proved himself a snot.
Some of us were worried when he was a kid.
We worried nobody was careful of what he did.
So Baby Justin Bieber is a bit of a wreck
Sort of like the words crawling up his neck.

Justin Bieber makes the young girls scream.
They don’t care he’s not the angel he seems.
If only he would misbehave with them, they think.
They’d let him act the fool, smoke and stink.
Because, after all, when you’re a teen-aged star
It doesn’t really matter just how fake you are.
The thing is be to be fashionable the youthful way
And let them get a glimpse of you every day.

if you ever want to come over and be sick and use my body like a doll-rod
I invite you to do so.
if you ever want to throw the rings and earn no points just to throw something
I invite you to do so.
if your pictures turn moldy and you can't face the mirrors, neither can I.

it's been three hundred seconds and I'm wondering if I should be listening for alphabet city or the sound of the Wilson's razor, if I should be curt or vowelless, glib and just a big sickening consonant or Occam's tired and infinite inner gesticulations- calculated but fleeting.

if you ever want to be you in front of that cemetery wall covered in the haze of eggy moonlight
I'd like to take pictures of the alms on your arms.

This earthquake is spicy and I am thrilled to feel some of the momentum coming back to my chest. I'm wishing for art too and believing in faeries and mid standing-ovation bringing my ears forward by cupping my hands, and holding ceramic mugs to the side of my head, listening for a dial tone or the tones of the dying.

you don't even know you make me write
into a black book or the white box, into the notes
onto the arms, scribbling while driving myself crazy at three-hundred and eighty seconds. Is this recording? I can turn it up.

what does it mean if I want to hang doors and patch holes, make locks and wear capes? It's been such a long lawn time, since I first got high on myself, met a new person and didn't want to drown or for them to drown.
Is this when I take the rocks out of my pockets and stop lingering by the water? Please let me know. You'll let me know, right?

If you ever want to talk serial killers over Apple Jacks or Corn Pops
I invite you to do so.
If you ever want to skip rocks or run from the cops with a second skin
I invite you to do so.

I like to dangle my feet over edges, while wearing floor-length gowns, while wearing ebony feathers, and avoiding being arrested. It's 26 minutes into tomorrow and we didn't give each other permission to die yet, so please don't go down without me. You're supposed to tell me when it's time to wear my rocks in the river, even if I never mentioned the plateau or the room where I heard the women crying.

Keep my secrets in your open-handed notebook
I invite you to do so.
Pencil new eyebrows for me to don, draw new shoes on my feet to wear
I invite you to do so.

Lock me in a box until I'm calling for the horrors, in a light-absent four-sided trap in the fetal position, I could be in a basement or on the 7 and a half floor of the Mertin-Flemmer building, but hum to me please.

I've asked you to set me on fire twice and you haven't,
does that make us best friends? I hope.

Yes, it's the racing carnival,
Fashionistas so topical,
Significance trivial,
Eye candy,
Drunk and silly,
Studs in suits,
Looking beaut,
Glitterati,
Haves and wannabes,
For the paparazzi,
Doyens of the racing industry,
You all look fabulous,
Gambling magnanimous,
Thoroughbreds' gloss,
Media hype and dross,
Great racing day,
*****, bets and babes,
Stuff the plebs today,
Our city's public holiday,
Melbourne Cup Day!

There's a needle in the drawer
The shakes move through my knees
When I see purple lights I know my mind's playing tricks on me. I thought I was old enough to know better or just don't care.

Around every corner there's somebody there with long blonde hair , she walks a stride behind me.

When I greet the sea she kisses my face We made the San Andreas fault line shake.

Never know where you're going,  or you'll get there too soon. With yourself all alone in a room fit for two.

Was it the same silence that October brings, that broke your speech, and left me crumbling. You snuck out of the house on the yellow brick road, then killed two of your friends and left their bodies to mold.. Now I'm back on the arm where you used to lay, the touch of your hands send the chills through my veins. I'm not over it, just older, and holding it closer.

Until the storm in my head explodes and shoots my ink on the walls, or I spend the nights scribbling in bathroom stalls. I've seen you dance above night a number of times, but never disappear so unexpectedly

Dress your girls
To be a street walker
Teach your boys
To become trash talkers.
Why should they undergo
The first twelve years or so
With no solid understanding
Of prostitution and manhandling?

So paint her face
And shorten her dress.
Copy the working girls
Make her an immoral mess.
All that is important is
The approval of her friends.
Don’t worry about where this
Look of impropriety ends.

You boys wear chains
And motorcycle gang wear
So that you can recognize him
In juvenile jail cells everywhere.
Let him get tattoos young
Of skulls and snakes and chains.
Why should you worry about
The future criminal that remains?

Peer acceptance rules
Parents certainly do not.
Look at all the free time
You suddenly have got.
You can set your kid down
In front of the television
And turn them into totally
Nearly useless men and women.

If everybody were naked
Nobody could make fun of my style
I would never be outdated.
I could go to parties with a smile.

Also when I live naked
Laundry bill can never go high.
I go jump into the shower
Suddenly I am a clean living guy.

Of course your clothing
Never gets sunburned
And nobody laughs at your zipper.
If you are the only
Person who’s naked
You look like a mescaline tripper.

But if everyone got naked
We might do away with all war
Because there would be little
That seems worth arguing for.

With all the women naked
There would be an end to their hose.
And girdles out of the question.
They’d be as natural as a spring rose.

But one must be careful.
A park bench can pinch
And hot car seats can burn.
Living **** has problems
But like everything else
It just more lessons one must learn.

But think about politics naked;
All those liars up on a public stage.
Without their expensive suits
Would they still manage to engage?

Olympians played naked.
Soldiers used to fight naked too.
Not sure what point I am making
But I think it means something, don’t you?

To be part of my tribe
I bought all the hype
And social mystique
Of clean white jeans,
How they set a guy apart
In matters of the heart
In the highly fickle world  
Of the dating scene.

Practicing my walk
Still not prepared to talk
Trying to look like
The cover of a magazine
Standing just so,
Hoping nobody knows
I feel like a fraud
In my clean white jeans

No one here to meet me
Nobody greets me
Suddenly invisible
I’m sure anyone has seen
How **** I look
Or the trouble I took
To come here this evening
In my clean white jeans.

Watching everyone dance
Not sure this is romance
It is obviously a way  
To see and be seen
Enjoying a hit song
I sort of dance right along
On the sidelines
In my clean white jeans

Now it’s two a.m.
I’m home alone again
Still not sure  
What popularity means
I still don’t know the score
I guess I expected more
Of my investment  
In my clean white jeans.

Not through your ******, your ear, or your nose,—
Your sphincter's the place where your sphincter ring goes!

O.O

Soon after I'd paid
My sixty
Or seventy pence,
I found myself
In what I thought
Was a miniature London.
I saw girls
In chandelier earrings,
In stiletto heels,
Wearing evening
Dresses,
Which contrasted with
The bizarre
Hair colours
They favoured:
Jet black
Or bleach blonde,
With flashes of
Red, Purple
Or green.
Some wore large
Bow ties,
Others unceremoniously
Hanged
Their school ties
Round their
Necks.
Eye make-up
Was exaggerated.
The boys all had
Short hair,
Wore mohair sweaters,
Thin ties,
Baggy,
Peg-top trousers
And winklepicker shoes.
A band playing
Raw street rock
At a frantic speed
Came to a sudden,
Violent ******...
Melodic, rhythmic,
Highly dancable
Soul music
Was now beginning
To fill the hall,
With another group
Of short-haired youths...
Smoother, more elegant,
Less menacing
Than the previous ones.
These well-dressed
Street boys
Wore well-pressed pegs
Of red or blue...
They pirouetted
And posed...
Pirouetted and posed.