I have been peeled
the ripest of my juices trickle
between cracks within the fold.
held up by the hands of affronted lust
and weighed beneath twin peaks
not crafted by I
but molded for the other;
a single mirage
reflects itself onto many surfaces,
in which they have been ****** upon

were we looking
for the feminine
of our soft hands
no questioning
the nature of daylight
is wonder, we feel it
in our touch
we know the ancient art of
cartography: love memory
death quivers deltas of tears
we taste the starvation of breath
the magnitude of gratitude

we kept the drum of hearts
alight to catch the waves of time
Anna's drum summoned Shiva,
the master of shiver
the god of blood
carrying sage scent in our hair
forgotten paths in our shapes
pink lotus flowers in our wombs
bold desires in our feet
tales of flames in each scar

we recognise each other
greet with a soul reverence
across time across space
we forgive ouselves
our betrayals violations
of a feminine truth
we wait for the men we love
we set ourselves free
from the spinning wheel of pain

we receive
we keep
what is alive
what is dead
still not born
in refused bodies:
the possibility of
kindness

we are women
we are dancers
we sing fiercely,
gently from the
chest of the moon

the nature of a woman is pain
she lives in silence
not a nail in sole would rouse her
she is not perturbed
but you will believe it
so she won't make a sound
for her voice is deafening
billowing with accusations and slander
how could woman not be happy in her confinement?
she is exactly how she should be
when she is small, mute, and most of all unremarkable
no woman should have the gall to look a man deep in his eye
if not without her clothes
so keep your head down *****
or you will be dealt with
man has the power
the strength
the resources and
the will
to take you
to **** you
to **** you
learn now and in earnest
lest your beauty or pride dissuade you
from finding your place in this world

step right in
where commodity and fiction
are deliberately blurred,

electrostatic dust collector,
after-shower body air-driers,
a spatially disconnected
from the world roll-on wife
complete with a dining table
that sinks into the floor;
don't tell her she's an android;
just don't.

she is captured
and ever ready,
she was a stenographer
but quite unsteady,
her mouth a spark of vowels
when her far off places
are aroused.

repeat this soothing motto — space, place, memory.

outside is scenographic sensation:
lightology. unbreathed air. porcelain skin.

she's the soft electric assurance
of a better life — the life which rests on device alone — a strong, sweet poison which infects the blood.

she is "the light of any home"...

~
Lipstick to void. She is a race against time. The beveled past a disruption in her lines of influence.

Travel is dangerous, and tonight it darkens the highway of blood vessels coursing through her extremities. She wants to be luminous and under the skin.

While Dorothy dreams of tornadoes in Kansas, she dreams of remote climbs in lesser Glasgow, of party drugs in Tokyo. How many lights does she see?

In her hair are sixty circuits. But she waits, religiously inclined on the hotel bed. She drove through ghosts to get here wearing nothing but Las Vegas.

So strange at this hour, in a city full of sleepwalkers for the taking, she now dreams she's a bulldozer, she now dreams she's alone in an empty field.
~

Dear Women,
If you’re wondering why he’s no longer texting you it’s probably because when he was, He felt like he was the one putting in all the effort he’s the one that sent the good morning and good night text first. He is the one that would ask you how your day was he would specifically check on that one thing you told him you were doing today. It is not because he has all the time in the world and he has nothing better to do he’s busy with his own things he made the conscious decision to make time for you only when he saw over and over again that his efforts were not being reciprocated that he decided to leave.

|
|

If I pick my scales off and prink, move
mountains to paint my flesh, turn red
lilies the wrong hue, I can
live in a world where I choose the
color

until blue and burgundy spots
form on each windowsill.

Look inside to join them watching
me dance
my large dance.

i don’t want to be a woman
standing on a suitcase packed with psychedelics
losing her remaining mind in a ditch on the side of the deserted road.
i don’t want to be a woman
who’s taught to love herself but the others around her
are peach trees in summer
with lips plump and red
with tiny thighs that extend.
i don’t want to be a woman
with frail bones because the calcium deficiency caught her early
shouting for her knees that are weak
and for her obsolete brain waves that forget their true place.
i don’t want to be woman
following the trail until it suits her no more
creating a secret code then tossing it into the river
with jaguar eyes and a lopsided smile
she’s fine with letting new histories die in her arms.
i don’t want to be a woman
in all truth, i don’t want to be associated with anyone
i don’t belong in this body, in this mindset, in this world
every word on each paper is screaming at me to rebuke my inner organs and to become a knight without limits
because i don’t believe in speaking up for the sake of speaking up.
i don’t want to be a woman
or a man for that matter
i just want to exist in the forest fires of los angeles
the city with no angels
no reason to be endowed with this city of torches and absolute tomfoolery
but look where i am now
i discarded my existence for fame and rash decisions
i don’t want to be a woman, do you?
if i put on a halter top and show you more skin, would you love who i am or the flesh that is impure and shameful?
i don’t want forced views to be my condemnation
i don’t want your silk dresses and pearls.
sham admiration is not my master
nor will it ever be in my mind or my soul.

        i don’t want to be woman, do you?