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Collagen created
By drawing across skin,
A boy playing with blades,
Stretching his flesh thin.

Collagen ladders
Made in his war,
Leading up his side.
He will make no more.

Collagen scars,
Spelling out words
Of hate and disgust,
Fade slowly from his form.

Collagen fades,
But memory doesn't.
He'll look back with a smile
When the future becomes present.

My scars don't look like
Anyone else's-
They're more careful,
Organized, precise and
Exact.
Not light, but
Never deep enough
Never deep enough
Never deep enough
Never deep enough.

People always ask why
I do such pretty patterns:
Because this is the only thing in life
That I can really control
Control
Control,

And I find it so beautiful-
Though, not so much tragic.

My scars are not chaotic like a
Car-wreck,
They are consistent like a
Coma-
Proof that I was awake
The whole time I was sleeping,
And I could feel everything
Even though I could tell no one.
No one.

That this
Unconscious obsessive compulsion
Demands order
Order
Order, it
Insists by instinct,
An intricate simplicity.

Still, I will 'ever envy
Those stitched gashes, once
Gushing
Gushing
Gushing with surrender and
Serenity...
Each raised and rough coarse collagen fiber
To form a white flag
Forever etched in flesh;
To tell the world
They, were a slave to freedom-

I am only a slave
To *myself.

Cheeks been complaining
That old chick keeps on whining
Collagen doses she's been consuming
useless... obviously not working
sagging, deteriorating and contaminating....

Drip yourself into a cup
Fill up your body with antiquity
Let the collagen insist
An allegory of Capricorn
Memories crystallised
Settled in
Forevers harvest
Insensitive
Misconstrued chemical
Collective symmetry's sin
A condition, livid
Fleeting in Human imagery
Ships break
Loop our tongued
Hands, tossed in Dramamine
Whittled in a succession of malleable fashion
Talent spilled spread in supper
Collate our atrophy
And drink from baroness
Flavours tarnished
Super-collider
Blood soaked in Gematria
A garden of totality
High brow comparison
Entitled in your vacuous stigma
Forever burning
In the lesser key of Solomon
28 daemon
Tessellation in trigonometry
Temperance towards an infinite
Champion of mind, complex

I am bound to her by blood,
this madwoman of a city
with eyes that see
a comatose heart, with no feeling.

One, two, three hundred,
a thousand —
we are all carbon copies
of her silicone *******, collagen cheeks
teeth bleached whiter
than the pearls we adorn ourselves with.

I was a child
when I left this madwoman,
mother of my younger years.
I left her drinking cuba libres,
stirring ice with her finger,
her nails crimson red.

I said, “Goodbye, I am leaving you.”
She turned her face back to the barrio
and said, “Adios, Muchacha.”

Years later, I look back on my youth.
I remember her as the mother I lost
the sister I never had
the woman I was afraid to become.

If only she knew
how easy she was to leave
how difficult she was to forget.

American city, your roads make me gasp,
Hold my breath with cancerous anxiety.

Your sidewalks,
Ancient ruins of time passed: A failed optimism for Utopian desire:
A house, a yard, a car for every person.

Now derelict, termite infested, but rented.
Chlorinated chemical water runs through rusted, moldy spickets to
Rinse pesticide seasoned vegetables.
And yet they remain so tasteless.

But who cares?
Suburban middle class zombies?
Created with media placed propaganda.
Born and inoculated with DisneypepsiMccocacola ideologies.

Oh Wal-Mart,
how we love your homogenized Chinese products.
Oh America,
how we love your multi-million dollar cathartic films,
They bring my mind to no place and inspire nothing.

Your theme park inspired retail caters to any identity I desire:
I am a professional,
My wallet lined with the best credit cards,
SUV, Hummer, Super boat, designer label, mall bought,
bleached teeth smile, with slick greasy hair style.

I'm cool, I pay for the gas.
Beep your horn, and rev your engine.
We are at war with each other.
Everyone get out of my way: road rage lifestyle: compete or die.

Big screen television dream.
Bought it at Target.

Open my cupboard: Macaroni and Cheese, delicious.
Ambian, Prozac, antibiotic, Listerine.

Collagen bovine beauty:
Manicure, pedicure, dye and wax

Acrylic nails, hair extensions
And silicone sacs.

Oh, American city
How we want to steal your money and **** your blood.
Chop your trees and cement your grass.
American city you are dead.

Daisy Lowe‘s body positivity and refusal to bow to fashion industry pressures have cemented her place as one of Britain’s hottest exports.

From international catwalks to Pirelli calendars, the 27-year-old’s career in front of the camera has gone from strength to strength - all because she’s unapologetically herself.

To celebrate her latest endeavour - a partnership with lingerie brand Triumph UK - the model sat down with The Huffington Post UK to let us in on her secrets.

What does having a positive body image mean to you?

Being comfortable in your own skin, embracing all your flaws and accepting that you are who you are.

Being individual is a beautiful thing.

Where does your confidence come from?

It’s definitely something any person living in today’s society has to learn and grow up to achieve. I’m still working on it on a daily basis.

Everything that I put into my body makes a difference. How much I work out makes a difference. Surrounding myself with people I can laugh a lot with and around whom I can be 100% myself.

What advice would you give to those struggling with self-image?

Love the parts of you that you don’t enjoy so much and be kind to yourself - that’s something that I have to constantly remind myself to do. Go and do something that inspires you or makes you happy.

How do you banish self doubt on bad days?

Meditation and mindfulness helps. Having a check-in with yourself and trying really hard to be present.

We can look outside ourselves and think about what other people are doing, -especially with social media - but if you can try your best in the exact moment that’s all that matters, because that’s all that really exists.

What would you like to see change in the fashion industry?

There’s a lot more room for variation as far as models go - we should be promoting that all shapes, sizes and ethnicities are beautiful.

It would be lovely for plus size models not to be called ‘plus size’ - they’re being used for the same jobs. We’re all just models - wearing beautiful clothes that make people feel good about themselves and helping designers to sell their creations. I’d love to see more ‘in-between’ size models too.

How do you decide what to wear in the morning?

The darker and greyer the world is outside, the more I wear bright colours - as long as you’re sunny in yourself! I’m such a creature of comfort – I’m a huge fan of pulling on a pair of stretchy comfy jeans (Lowe swears by high-waisted styles by Paige, Frame and J Brand) and I love a bit of cashmere.

Jewellery wise, I always wear Crystal necklaces or chains by Loquet. I’m also a fan of a cute tea dress and ballet shoes. I love that Brigitte Bardot/Jane Birkin 60s/70s vibe mixed up with a bit of 90s grunge.

What are your favourite shopping spots?

Lark Vintage in Somerset is amazing, and in London I love Mairead Lewin Vintage. Those are top secret - I never usually tell anyone those.

Brand wise, I love James Perse, Cocoa Cashmere, Erdem, Simone Rocha and Ganni - I have a leather jacket from there I haven’t taken off for a year. I also have a troubling Saint Laurent addiction.

Talk me through your daily skincare routine.

I love the P50 W Lotion by Biologique Recherche, it’s done absolute wonders for my skin and makes it much more clear.

I also swear by the Crème de la Mer Genaissance de la Mer serum, moisturising soft cream and eye concentrate.

For my body, I use Aesop A Rose By Any Other Name cleanser and Balance Me for their luxurious moisturisers and body oils made with natural ingredients.

What are your makeup bag staples?

Tom Ford is a go-to. I use the Traceless Perfecting Foundation, which has SPF, and the concealing pen around my nose and eyes.

I like to keep my makeup really simple, so I’ll use the Laura Mercier Paint Wash liquid lip colour in petal pink on both my lips and cheeks.

For eyes, I swear by Tom Ford Waterproof Extreme Mascara and Kevin Aucoin eyelash curlers.

What’s the best tip you’ve picked up from a makeup artist?

My makeup artist would **** me if I ever slept in my makeup. Another great tip is to make sure you conceal around your nose. If your nose is red it makes your whole complexion look uneven.

Also, always apply lipstick all the way into the corners of your mouth to continue the line.

What’s the weirdest thing you’ve done in the name of beauty?

When I was younger I used to make these weird DIY face masks with my friends. We made one with mashed banana, avocado, honey and peanut butter. Peanut butter on active teenage skin was not the best idea.

Any other beauty secrets you can let us in on?

My facialist Arezoo Kaviani is amazing. She’s a real healer at heart. She does a deep cleansing ****** with extraction and LED light therapy.

I also tried a collagen wave ****** recently, which was great.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses

It's now or never what awaits
Gin is forever like her collagen of skin
the wanting how her prayers got answered
The (Him) the (I-phone) not my (Apple)
My blessings I got my miracle how fate
sipped me in with my best friend
                        (Gin)
The sip loving him  gin is her oxygen
All cravings from the countries
Native American, Latin American
Afro American, and The North American
The Hotel going to all the meetings
At the Sheraton
my lip to his sunset
Makes a world of her savings

Meets to my original
Tastebuds petals
and sprinkles like bling
Watering my rosebuds
So many brands but
Modern twist
Portugal Spanish
olives trees could sing

Cat nine lives versus her
Gin of love doves pleas

Scratch me lucky seven
But  conventional
Love-seat sectional
Him- I- Gin lets be

((Gin Rational))

Like the pixel living
more with a sweet taste
Stirring and purring Cat
I-Gin him the mighty morsel
Playing black-Jack
She had the best cards
Gin* I * pack
The game is pouring
the poker lip scouring

The origin of Dracula Bram Stoker
Her wavy hair red-hot tasseled
Like waves of (Gin) rippled
She mingled like" I- Gin"
But she was more mortal
Are we on air 2 win
The News over dripping
Hot Gin story him side-slip
National sip velvet whole lip
The warmth going down
The gin was magical potent
All exotic types she dressed
in stripes
Not the American Flag

The European sip of the Gin
Meeting her man
Weaving through the warmth
Juniper Glamped Gin camper
He's so defined in his character
Gin all him her floret trim glass

The process takes time
Gin- Boss Italian glass
Florence blown
Newfangled  or seductively
Flagged in bangled worn

Entirely subjective
The Europeans Industry
Origin of the whole dynasty
Juniper berries
Like a Junior virginity-Gin
Or him___?
Far from New York City
His flight first class (Gin)
and only him
Butterflies look divine on
her breast
Like the Gin and Science test
Her cherries in her Gin Drink
His theories in his Manly winks

The gin so medicinal
How it ward off malaria
She drinks to her delicately
tone body All God-lit
Her swiftly steps fit
Shes all heart like the ballerina
She is the Grace of the gin drink
The new look on her face
The purest wings fly the best
Our time of the Origin

Women and Men start now to begin
Dressed up new technology generation
The Gin of romance mission
The next pour dripping
intense torrential rain
For the single- set such potential
The married couple drenching
drink wet was more primal

The Gin couple was immaculate
never late
They won the bet that's
Gin-like no other fate

well... i'd call this self-medication, or at least some sort of
"understanding" of what happened to me.
            people who i tell that it happened to me,
are still deluded in "thinking" that it didn't.
      you know how painful a brain hemorrhage
can be?                      well... it's fat oozing blood,
and it's not as painful as breaking a bone -
                                       but it's an exquisite pain;
this is why i write, like i said once:
my life's so ******* boring, that i just had to write about it;
and that really makes sense, because the writing
potential is, inexhaustible.
           but that really made me think about something,
namely the treatment of having suffered
                                                  a brain hemorrhage.
physiotherapy aside, i wanted to concentrate
                         on a cartesian model with regards
to the problem... the    mind vs. body,
                              or not necessarily the vs. but
the dualism / dichotomy.
                    physiotherapy treats the body...
but that's because physiotherapy only treats the body,
rather than the brain itself; and i'm guessing:
     all that idle chit-chat fusing comfort with hope.
the actual brain though? it's not actually treated.
physiotherapy doesn't treat the "mind" (i.e. brain) -
because it only treats the body.
               now, you see, i thought up a solution to treat the brain...
by the way: it worked with me, i don't know
if it might work with other people.
            the premise is...         brain is fat-electric, right?
      it's not a muscle, it's not a bone, it's not cartilage,
it's not fibrous collagen (tendon),
            it's fat... which is why omega-3 is really advocated
to be ingested to keep it healthy (the brain),
   as are nuts... brazil nuts, hazelnuts... cashews...
but i'm thinking about treating the brain,
       not outside of physiotherapy, but as including it -
well... the brain... fat-electric... synapses and lightning...
once again, this is a trial & error effort to consider...
     how about... simply pulverising the brain with loud
music, using headphones? **** me... that's a real frankenstein
move... using electricity to, how to say it:
         dry off the blood that spilled out of the brain?
since isn't that a way to somehow treat the brain
         while at the same time treating the body?
         you use electric currents of music blasting from
headphones to, dry off the blood that has just oozed out...
       you could have periods of physiotherapy...
but also periods of someone lying down, with headphones
on, and listening to their favourite music, really loud,
to rejuvenate the electric fat, that the brain is.
in the anglophone world we're already talking about
   nietzsche's fear: imagine talking for the whole of mankind...
so if we're already doing that in a cultural darwinism,
and that only means numbers and abstracted individualism,
what could possibly go wrong with this sort of experiment
i'm proposing?    a few people would go into seizures
and die... listening to their favourite music?
      i mean... birds singing? that's ****** annoying...
the only bird i can stomach is a crow - simply because he's
not adamant on expressing: oh it's spring! it's spring!
well... you know... just an idea... but it might work:
pulverising the brain with electricity... and that's not to say
it's the psychiatric sadism of e.c.t. (electroconvulsive therapy),
because what i'm suggesting is bypassing the bone structure,
and heading into soft tissue, using music,
                    to pulverise the brain with loud music.
song of choice? kmfdm's megalomaniac, or juke joint jezebel.

Let's go for a naked dip-
my bathing suit is cute but so is my birthday suit-
oh egg head
don't fall and crack
spill brains and embryo everywhere,
not good for the kids at all
might leave mental scars on long-term memory
let's get tatted like good old native americans
I am Chief Awesome
you are Franchise Emperor
pouring fries and salt into my arteries,
slow, delicious death
why must thou be so appealing?
Don't be so stupid
taste buds are my best buds
blooming like beautiful bulbs in berry season
blossoming
absorbing flavors and releasing neurochemicals
oh so sensible and seductive
get a hair cute Mr. Scrutiny,
you are outdated and overrated
Power-aded lemon-tossed
concluded in cuddling under stars and blankets
blame the infantry
they couldn't save themselves
poor things
just doing duties
just not all appreciated
but we do the appreciating
graphite collages and collagen fills
spill orange juice on tables
perpetually sticky
dodgeball eyes
yes we will be friends.

relieves pain of joints                          
eases arthritis symptoms
heals wounds, collagen

I stand in front of a mirror. If anyone knows my face, it’s me. The grandeur of ego.

I’m bored with:
My prominent brow
My acne
My picket fence teeth
My collagen

My flaws
are like skyscrapers
No matter how high
I look
my biggest landmarks
scrape
the empty blue sky

I’m tired of
my face being wet
after I cry
I miss the drought

I miss being dry
with my humor
and my ambitions

I miss plain
white eyes
wide smiles
hair
music
not this wave of social indecency

I’m stranded
here on in this valley
it’s a massive grave
a hole I dug

no chains when I’m enslaved
just bad dreams
and flat tires

I black out locations
on road maps
to places I saw as a child
Miami and Key West don’t exist
Neither does Bumfuq, Egypt

If they do exist
it’s in another realm
where people see
through black ink

There we stood
once, at the edges
of the valley
“I’ll race you down.”
Oops.

Stop it.
Right now.
I’m tired of you.
Your problems.
Sincerely,
New Friend

I’m tired of
being insane
being depressed
being lonely

Sobriety
makes you all miserable
trying staying that way
your whole life

Hey look!
passive aggression
it’s tied to my big toe
it’s my anchor
to reality

It repuls[e]s me
to t[h]ink about
what you put
in you[r] ve[i]ns
when y[o]u had
absolutely [n]o
one to hold
you.

I’m falling
again
I brought
parachutes
and kit kat bars
you know
how it goes

Remember that day?
We had some animal
blood
we used it as ink
at the fast food place
on a $1 paper board
to protest your
departing.

Remember that day?
We had ******* ***
a lot of it
I tasted your blood
on your tongue
I almost
threw up

Remember when
I came to your house
and you recorded me
playing guitar badly
for your music

There was that time
where my ex was
following me
everywhere
You told me
she was an
EMOTIONAL
TERRORIST
you helped me
I admired that
Now we don’t talk

Remember that day
we listened to AFI
at the In-N-Out
drive thru
at midnight
I held your hand
in the back seat
while I threatened
a fat man eating a burger
That was exciting

Remember
when I first
kissed you
in the dark
of your
apartment?

I haven’t
seen you
in a week
and we
don’t call
each other
You’re
my best
friend
sometimes

And you
I didn’t forget
about my dearest
friend

Yes
I miss you
crazy
*******
thing
memory is

I’m going to sleep
I miss seeing the sky
at the early hours
it would be red
or purple
or anything
I want you to see it
with me
in the desert
before I leave

we’ll be friends

under the stars

as far as anyone else is concerned:

bye.

Blow you up? You bet I did, lil **** my Mouth dont miss, my lips are perfect
Ego stroked and Pipedreamed yo almost *******
Blowing smoke up and out a sly eyed ***
No rounds draft pick
Beer,
Cause if you cant ******* might as well
Hang
Like a bad insecurity got the big bigger biggest
And you were left with a po mans ****
Don't forget to forget those Trojans
I called it (on behalf of all the ***** you are gonna get and ever did)
Unballin like a roly poly on curl on nuttin
Questioning test subjects
Tea missed me, them bags need some stuffin
****** can't make it stand up for somethin'
Attention attention yo limp gic
Whats wrong? Business got you down?
Can't stay on like fake *** ****?
And yes, I can rake
3 of the largest tallest meanest
Implanted collagen injected *******
Bet you didn't know I got it like that
Tell em how you go wild behind the
Players with the swing in the pants
Crotch testing 1 2 3 .....6
Tasters of the finest mix mess listed
Assfections affectionate hact
You a grown *** man getting dollars ****
No **** in real ****
As you crave to wet your name with it
You just leave her dry guessing
When you gone get hard enough
Too get that operation
So she can finally ***
And you can finally know what
It feels like to satisfy a person.

Tangley Wangling

Fruit Jews in Tutus at youth group, maybe just a few with their screws loose. One self-rolling righteous group, their brothers grinning
Within the depths of their white-heads at the brim of a wet blanket suckling the needles catering new drug use. Two by two, elefants and woozels, hippopotamü's confusals, spongey-butts outfitting the rye n' wines refusals.

The luxury of a coccyx felt from the fingers turn to sunrise, where the water's weigh the bricks of suicides, concrete block tourniquets from the migraines of English turnabouts. So there's some surplus of surprise in them, in an integers shock-appraisal face-lift on Catholicism's lobotomy to cuckhold housewives seeking collagen, or the thick dark-skinned forearm-******* insider's swinging in the houses of the denizens, or repurposing their malign from their unused vaginas, to **** the dust off such scab-covered stitches, which is like vacuuming between the loose inner-leg space of a succubus.

Bring out the gimp! Any fetishized leather-wearing hungry miner for the oral tongue-slapping mouth-dance might do, as long as the dom can subdue that sub tied to the stocks voted on for the public to use, there might be screaming, squirming, and scoffs, but there's nothing left for him that Marina Abramowicz hasn't already proven she's willing to lose. Plus, in this small town not far enough from Laramie, there's still too much fat to chew through, too much flab to tuck the **** into, where even the F.U.P.A. so deep that a *******-day or deity might need the leverage of a boot to get even Ron Jeremy's **** unglued.

Lucky loos by the brothel befit these new arrivals, though some tyrannosaurs despise 'em, smoke as much as you can if you've got 'em.

But don't let your antiques get you down, an ornithologist lends herself to your bookends, and even that nighthawk roosting makes your car alarm sound second rate, it's seconds late as the aves rave to the ravens, and they pontificate. Owls hoo-hoo and hooting, branch off with the others and start colluding. They just wanna get you home, to get back those prosthetics you've loaned.

Canoodling barbarians on their way back from the aquarium, demand  their fires come from oblivion, which sends sparks of arguments from the sharks and the bathylkopian oblivions, where we found that this water's warm these citizens, demand recompense for such grandiose living expense, three pence to use the phone, twelve rupees towards the sofa, and even a deutsch mark for every sit or every look at sit, it's just a chair, a doubly set of wooden legs, idling under a table plank. Pirated by the buttocks, such bullocks it is, and that's just it!

An archaeologist on assignment discovered that the future of the rhinoceros exists upon the olfactory exaggerated proboscis, the result of flushing unused anti-biotics, and is currently working for dimes out of college to deluge this quite deprived yet interesting biopic.  

The films of the *****, grab at the ***** thrown about by The Monkees, and the musicians wearing those stickers on their *******, are victim to XXS cotton denim vests, unzipped and barely covering themselves, added to by the accessories and rings, jewelry if anything, a pearl necklace and nubile sacrifis.

And the trollops frolic, diurnally dispose of logic, doing the hoopty-hoop, the alley-oops, with mom's high school flute in nothing but cowboy boots!

These are, the new discoveries of our species, carved into the marble and wet frescos, in the street reliefs, spray-painted and air-brushed motif, this creates such gatherings for throngs of people who've unachieved their needs, who've displaced their parents and display their racist grieving beliefs to trash indigenous language pleas for francophonian linguistic greed that have splayed their hellacious treaty in what's considered to be modern circumscribed and ill-painted cuneiform visually conceived, vocal graffiti.

So that the neu-faux derogatory delegates stress to sudatorium, it has regressed to moratoriums, we've now cancelled this sport consortium of awful and flagrant art performances.

6 sides
Latent enabler
Counterpoint to truth, amorphic
Dada to life
Callous Birth
Islands dripped in collagen
Mystic, effortless life
Tempests laden iota in tune
Riven
Licked flat, obtuse
Crescent stench
Pagan cells
Hazard the thought
Pick the Atlantic cherry
Reach further than comfort
Pushed & consumed
Spirited paste
Jesuit told in spheres
Lament interest, matted quill
Totem, Saxon tribe
Inflections of hearsay
And Swastikas on parade
Guilt of the blacksmith, undecided
The arms of tablets
Ashtrays & tropospheric light
Another page turned
Capsules filled with perfume
Loose skin lost in relics
Temporal lobe
Cautioned indignant
Pardon the prose
Sonnets dissolved in ethanol
Caricatures of the fleeting
Of our cities last broadcast
Absorbed by times gone
Glittered pestilence
Canceling subordinates, powdered Semtex
Soup of the sewer
Lift the butcher above your head
Nazca lines
Suborbital
Silk screen with *****
Horizontal qualm toward revulsion
Incursion
Calm, cued and cubed
Lab coats coated in pharmaceuticals
Base compound, ionic bond
Covalent CNS
Sympathetic vibration
Default to nature
To theorise movement
Agitate intolerance, turbulence
Beautiful thought
Calculate causality
Passenger of licked lips
Token to latex
Croft in ear, to taste
Unlaced tips, rings of halothane
Bliss
Intrigued with obscurity

fight the need to pull the thorn, **** yourself to be reborn,
live your life in fear of death, clinging to your final breath
harm done even when you win, pride is such a deadly sin
count me out or count me in, til the day the world wont spin
fine me for my will to be, tax the squirrel the use the tree
sell my insides, scamming me, nothing in this world is free
shaping, taping back together, taking, raking all your splendor
faking, making us pretenders, facing, gaping black forever
bring me down and ream me out, fill me up with hate and doubt
tender fetal origins, generations' collagen
lets go out and hit the town, shoot one up and knock one down
binding, winding, finding sound, listening to my heart pound
bursting vessels 'round the socket, ball it up into my pocket
flyin higher than a rocket, once you've tried it, try and knock it
asking nice to get inside; soiled, rotten, blushing bride
with her hands between her thighs, only wishing for surprise
see our circle dissipate, seems i've found you just too late
all im left with is my hate, and the need to procreate
lose your temper, mind and soul, listen to the blackness roll
deaths compile and raise the toll, what secrets does the future hold?
wretched roaches writhe and run, while rancid tyrants toll the sun
leeches, peaches, pears and plums, **** me when my birthday comes

It isn't so much
broken, as muscle is
unlike bone and
does not fracture cleanly.
It will not heal completely,
when damaged, no matter
how well it is set.
Bone calcifies to mend itself,
and adds new minerals
and elements to make it stronger yet.
Muscle, however, turns to weaker ends
that lack its own elasticity.
It mends itself with collagen,
and becomes more prone to injury.

When they ate me alive,

I asked them to go slow.

Asked them to please relish my pain,

**** my marrow as if I was served at at the finest restaurant

where waiters speak in hushed voices and

the lights are dim and

the menu is fixed, is twelve courses long,

is exactly what you want.

I asked them to go slow.

I asked them to read my palms to tell me how long I had to live,

I asked them to forgive me,

to let me forgive others,

to tell the girl from high school who faked a pregnancy in front of the entire school and me,

her best friend,

tell her that she can be safe in her own head,

and it takes time,

and no one is going to eat her alive.

I asked them to renounce my baptism,

to tell my pastor I only wanted to dip in that warm water and feel all the attention on me.

I was seven,

it was the same year as 9/11.

I knew the Bible,

but can you tell them I just wanted to get in the bathtub, to float?

Maybe I wanted to be saved,

but now savor this instead,

this

subverting honesty,

these verses of

plain, plain

muscle vein ligament stretch, skin collagen fat scars freckles bones bones bones,

savor this.

I am as human as I will ever be,

and I’ve got stories that can make you whistle,

can make you curl your toes,

can make your ears practically salivate at the thought.

Can you wait?

Savor me, take small parts of me,

but as you’re eating me alive

please remember that I am a bathtub

and a book

and I’m barely written or read and I need something like

time to write myself finished.

I’m not done yet.

This is a plea.

there are four stages of healing wounds
1. your red blood cells will form a blood clot to stop the bleeding; then your wound would be swollen
2. white blood cells capture and fight rogue bacteria
3. fibroblast cells would enter, drop collagen and form connective tissues again
4. your skin will connect and contract and be out much stronger than before

but among all wounds, a broken heart is the hardest to heal
1. your heart will not be swollen, it would be numb, and there will be days when you don't even know if you still have it. it would be a black hole for quite some time, it will **** anything and everything you used to love and leave you with nothing
2. you won't have the capability to fight rogue bacteria if anything you may actually succumb yourself with it; sometimes you may even let it control you until you forget that you own yourself
3. and then when it hits you, you will feel everything again all at once - the pain of lost love, melancholy, longing. you will realize how much you have loved and how much you have lost. now what you do is you bounce back, but how?
4. at this stage you must already be stronger than what you used to be, but for broken hearts, this may take a while, or it may take bottles and a lot more bottles of alcohol, or it may need a quiet moment for you to think straight, some just let time heal it. but the good thing is, healing a broken heart is actually a choice.
yet unlike all other wounds, it can be fixed in two ways
1. you seek for someone who can hold your hand while you fix yourself
2. you fix yourself alone

*you chose the first one, I'm choosing number two

Standing at the grocery store
Purchasing some tea
Eyeing magazines of kings
And queens
I approach the counter and see those
Icons of notoriety who love the people who
Worship them
To see what the masses heart belies...
False idols on pedestals
Dripping nectar, donning diamonds and
Pretty halos of foxglove-laurel.
What Is it that gives us purpose?
Your likeness caught within a picture
Hung up with tacks
A poster In some teen's boudoir?
Mirrors shattered and
Speculations
Will my person be controversial?
Completely surrounded by
Rumors and
The flashy sparks of cameras.

So Vogue says you need
Plastic surgery
And collagen.
Redeem your youth
(Slice thy skin)
After all ugliness is a sin

Am I special?
The Presley of Instagram?
A showcase in everyone's dream
The Monroe of Tweets
You James Dean fiends
You know taking
Selfies is the new disease
I pray! Matinee idols
Do you want to live forever?
Facebook me a savior
Re blog me till I'm real and
Could you tell me who I am?
I've lost myself in Wonderland

Dibble bubble bubble
Written on shitely mearce
A stake to plunder crunch
Of politician Pierce
Colligan
To hollagans
Collagen appeal
Maketh dartboards out of heart boards
Wherein innocence tis real
Foughty daughty submarines
Climbs to ****** coarse
Follitine
Dreamers
Plot success Morse
Coffee beans
To livered spleens
Pains to shock the trike
Childress of a virtue
Seaps of anothers life
Trigulues
And bedulues
Smiling at the air
Drommatice
And romisis
Promises don't care
Foughty immense Brice
Pickled to shickled biles
***** of settle keaster ways
A blighty for the smile
Libertinth
And minants tint
Flight to bagbird heads
Crucifixed pixies
Twilight up ahead!!!

Last night I read about a woman who purged herself to death.
We shared the same birthday,
the same habits.
Sometimes I wake up in disgust with these bones.
Other times, in narcissistic bliss with these bones.
Then there are those perpetual evenings,
when I whisper threats disguised as mantras to these bones
I want my obituary to say
that I loved this delicate framework of calcium & collagen.
When I'm 91 and the only thing I've expulsed myself of
is the need to perfect these bones.

When they were on the skeptical air, they seemed to feel greenish bunches fallen on the hooves and the frogs of the Alikantus helmet that was appreciated in contrasting imagery in the "V", ignoring possessions in the four patrimonial endowments, to ensure the runaway Supramundis that was waving galloping detached from the tapestries and pictures of Messolonghi. The bed of the plants of Kanti and Alikantus was cracking at the nail of the whitish lunula of their hooves that multiplied behind the substance of Carlo Magno, mounted in his Bayard with four sections riding on the impulses of their caps, in the direction of his cavalry by the Jacobin route upon reaching Zaragoza. The holistic robbery and his ingrown nails were ungulating on the nearby trees in some of his riders, in order to be able to mount them raised and prevent them from ambush. When they supported the third sighting and its third phalanx, chestnuts ungulated in the distal areas of the helmet and of the palfreys that were going to Messolonghi, reducing the number of their fingers, thus in this way they could become dogmatized before the rough ground, and their tendencies in the spaces of Elliniká leptá apó diastima, “Hellenic minutes of space” towards the shortest time of the minutes that allows them to be relocated before reaching Messolonghi. More past than the marked footsteps on Compostela, it was before heading them, marking himself with the anticipated quantum of speed already acquired by Carlo Magno's Bayard, which he carried on his dorsal due to the footsteps of other similar ones that supported him. In the scene of parallel convergence, the troops of the beasts were crossing in different spheres of quantum time, in the adversary of Carlo Magno.

The anatomy of the place was distinguished by the crowds of their marked footprints, and some chestnut frogs repopulating in the contour of the hooves of their hooves, redistributing the impact zones to reestablish themselves, to do the same of their bones in global anti-components. organic materials, to encapsulate and ring them in the fibrous components of the Zefian Virolifero, which had a seismic impact on the collagen of its parallel and on the retracting of the coronary band of its hooves, to extravert energy that will sustain the curbs, before riding back. by all the heights that besieged them, as if they were thousands and thousands of herds bringing their archaic verses from afar. When they felt the repercussions of monstrosity, they found themselves surrounded by feeling themselves in the magnificent metropolis of the chestnut trees, offending the embankment with great impulsiveness in the burnished clouds, paying tribute to Vernarth, and his entourage who glorified them as they navigated together through the skies of Greece, in the semi-human herds of Apollo who went out of their way to lose themselves neurologically, when their feudataries sailed through the atmospheres of the Cyclades, under a pensive aeromorphic figure that appears commenting:

Says Vernarth: “after listening to this amidst the luminous clouds, before taking me from frequent acrobatics, before me Raeder suspended from the heights, he invited me by reciting some odes before heading to Patmos. He briefly illustrated us in quotes about the Messolonghi poets. Raeder, holding firmly to Petrobus's legs, was concentrating, and he was excited, but at the same time very delighted to be coming to his land very soon. Thus the verses would fill him with great spirit to start a new stage. After being very well received by the routes of the temperate sigh, the present wind would take them to Kissamos / Crete, where they will remain flying in the irascible spree of celebrating a great event when they land on this great island. Then they would leave for Kalymnos and Kinaros by the route of the Cyclades, to finally establish themselves in the Dodecanese dominions. Perhaps venturing in boldly by being sublimated by the tiny mists blowing from the Metelmi wind, with the unnoticed shifting Mediterranean climates of the exhausted eastern.

The Sibyl Tiburtina supports Raeder gathering him to her arms and telling him: “You will receive my warmth that will imprison the house of the high priest, whose scene will be represented in Procoro on its corresponding neutral folio. Succeeding in expletives from the past, which was no longer intended or harassed at him. The Armas Christi will once again swirl with the Souls of Trouvere from the last irascible recesses of the Eolonimi winds in the holistic of all the winds that named Vernarth. "Your children will not live again, the military Macedonian will hear", their physical resurrection will flee from the unconverted taking place after the tree of Mars when they liberate the innocent fallen from the versicular belief, which segments the ray in its half where no minute will be able to hit him "

Antiphon of Triburtina: “Son of David they will give us the consorts, by setting the table in the center with the newly molded bread, and his authority will not have to distribute it into the pieces of an earthly life that allows them to bring it to their mouths. We will all be converted singing all the fantasy of giving what should never have remained in our hands, even if they have never been greedy for him. "

I am ready for my close up today.
Take in all my in insecurities
And bathe me in your municipality.
I'm finished and I've received my black eyes
At the hands of your better judgement.

I am but a cold hand
Emerging from the grave in my heart;
A burned and bitten piece of flesh.
I hated Ohio for all it's worth,
But there's a record store out there
I know I could fall in love in.

I've lost my childhood heroine to ******
And I've lost my innocence to about the same thing:
That is, if men were drugs
And my lungs weren't already full
With the Northern Lights
And ambiance of darkened alleys;
The kind Mary Jane
Kissed Spiderman in all those movie moments ago.

Why do we berate our heroes
When they aren't exactly male
And why did they beat upon this withered soul
Like a rag doll
When she had nothing to give
And no one to blame?

All your friends
Will come and go
And look for something better in time.
Which is exactly the reason
To keep on keeping on
And to keep on growing
And loving and hating
And *******
And clawing our ways
Out of the graves in our hearts.

I'm ready for my close up today.
I am all right if they see the
Collagen in my cheeks
And the dirt caked in my pores.
Today I am enlightened
And today I am full.

One day it dawned on Lana:
Some physical “flaws” seemed more dominant.
Rivers of wrinkles crisscrossed her face,
And the bump on her nose looked more prominent.
“This just won’t do,” she said to herself.
“Good looks are SO in demand.
I’ve got to see Dr. Slicestitch before
All of this gets out of hand.”
 
The doctor, after examining Lana,
Made a few helpful suggestions:
“I have the perfect plan for you.
Just stop me to ask any questions.
Let’s start with a major skin resurfacing
To get rid of wrinkles and spots.
We’ll do a slice here, a little slice there,
And then we will start with the shots.
Collagen and Botox injections
Will follow your mid-face lift.
Rhinoplasty will flatten your nose.
But we can’t give your ***** short shrift.
If you’re looking at breast enlargement,
We can give you an impressive rack—
Unless reduction is more beneficial
To somewhat relieve that pain in your back.
We’ll lift your eyelids, raise your cheekbones,
And put an implant in your chin.
We’ll thicken your lips and pull back your neck
To allow you to have the tightest of skin.
There's sclerotherapy for varicose veins;
My accuracy is really uncanny.
And a little more work in the lower area
Will give great form to your flat *****.
Liposuction on your thighs and belly
Would, I think, be very smart.
Plus laser treatment for unwanted hair.
All this should be a great START.”
 
You should see Lana now;
Stop by to kindly surprise her.
You’ll be astonished by her new look,
Although you won’t recognize her.
Her face is so tight that she can’t smile;
Her translucent skin is pale and waxen.
Her chin protrudes and her nose is flat.
She’ll remind you of Michael Jackson.
It almost seems as though she can’t blink;
If she could, I’d be amazed.
The look on her face is the look of a woman
Perpetually shocked or crazed.
Regarding her *******, she went with large
Instead of doing the breast reduction.
Her ******* might turn heads, but not
The loose skin from her liposuction.
Yes, she’s got new shape to her bottom,
But now especially she must beware:
Since she is so heavy on top,
It makes it hard to sit on a chair.
Since she’s started all this work,
Frequent adjustments will be needed
To fine tune areas that would get messy
If they're left entirely unheeded.
 
A major overhaul on a car
Works well on an old Model T.
The human body is more problematic;
The outcome has no guarantee.
A little adjustment here and there
Is fine if it’s done quite tastefully.
But many people like the idea
Of growing old gracefully.
Lana received a complete transformation;
Of options she was presented with plenty.
It’s just that it’s strange when someone looks
Seventy going on twenty.

- by Bob B

a dance of dizzy precision
vision clipped like the moon
with no hindsight, with  no foresight
with "business, as usual"
i cannot bear to swallow
another one of your highly reactive
chemical reactions that
bursts out of the stopper
into temporary moments of anger
reeling bait like words
hooked; gumless and bleeding with splintered steams, then,
you speak to me
of  treaties, of proceedings, of compromise
you do not what compromise is
i wonder into your open mouth
why you pull away first
you plead for being
drunk on inflation and an ego like a broken thumb
cause you was craving a drink and a hit
for no reason
sipping up liquor leaks from
the roof of your mouth
like raw running yolk
purging pallid spaces between the jeans and the belly
"business, as usual"
a business of
dropping numbers like flies
but it will not matter
the difference between 89 and 98
10 pounds
plummets into a mouth of some savage beast
who gnaws away at my bones ******* the meat
i stand calcified
without collagen,
inflexible
I will keep feeding the beast, today
Today, a kink in the rhythm of some machine
whirling, cranking, spitting out
blades of a tongue pressing stealing into inter
locking steel
Startled, I awake to “business, as usual”
i cannot flex steel tounge
i cannot push flesh down
i cannot comprehend a home that should be
how it could be how  
home stitched up home stitched scars
a home with the worst air pollution in new york
how this effects me, no
how you infected me, yes
now inhaling your ash to my lungs in pipe and in sky
drowning in layers of pollution in the sea of home
drowning in the sea of my mouth
drowning in a mouth like a seagull beak
plucking bread crumbs and scabs
almost drown when i was 10
in that great south bay, sleepy pollution
now, i turn 20 and i stand drowning in sea of the seedlings you planted
how could i be so moldable?
how home would infect then?
it would seep chest and toes and space above my brow
14 deep and 7 to disintegrate
home imprinted on skin now
today,today  i will feed the beast, somehow

Open your eyes for a dose of oxygen,
Smell a world with tears and spice,
Whose child is this down the doorstep.

You sleep with your fast growing collagen,
Recovering the jet-lag of the unknown I surmise,
Whose child is this down the doorstep.

Yet to come the tag that latches on to your origin,
when living each day has its invaluable price,
Whose child is this down the doorstep.

Will you belong to the cigarettes and scent of gin,
Or shall I see you chase dreams left to their own device,
Whose child is this down the doorstep.

There might be peace or violence had here you been,
You could be a well-built fortune or a random dice,
Whose child is this down the doorstep.

And I am witnessing this, without sorrow or grin,
Wonder, distress and an expired love that will suffice.
Open your eyes for a dose of oxygen,
Whose child is this down the doorstep.

Jetpack... Icepick, how else?
are you the blue carpet, the
****** toon to my collagen?

Probably not.
Still, it was a nice ride.

by: William A. Marshall

we fill a pig
we fill the job
we fill in the blank
we fill a **** tank
our plot of dirt
and wreathed granite
we fill our gut
we fill the dish
we fill a wall
with frame
and single-mindedness
we fill our cup
we fill a slot
we fill up the dog
with greasy scraps
that no one wanted
since they’re full
and we seal friends
with cake from cheap
card board boxes
stuffed with sugar
and nonsense
we fill our kids
with what we want
we fill a prison
we fill our brain
and cabbage chest
that eventually rots
and smells
like old Roses De Chloé
and Loreal pigment
we fill our *******
crows feet with collagen
instead of admiring them
like the meritorious stripes  
that they are
they rest in ashen dust
gin vapor and vehicle identity
finally blows up
and floats away
like a bad check
a shadow on the landing
up high,
a sun drenched butte
where lupine and sage grows
out of touch from hectors
reaching what counts,
quiet breezes can be heard
shrilling through the rock
and now bare
dignity never shows up
at times like this,
vultures hover over
the empty can of a carcass
and bones that once stood
just and ran full
and fought clashes,
nothing is full now
and what matters
most is
now
empty.