"fashionably" poems
She'll come to you, you don't have to go to her.
She initiates the dates and puts up with the waits,
As you always seem to arrive "fashionably" late.
And say you want to get her in bed, that's a piece of cake.
She doesn't even put up a wall for you to break.
It's just so easy for you to take, take, take.
It's just too easy to not appreciate.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 3:46 AM UTC
the politics
of mirrors
lies out of sight
while the frogs in the pond
fashionably late
sing the swan song
of separation
no-mind-all-one
the ******* tree fruits teeth
and eats itself on impact
leaving behind no trace
of heart beat
or throbbing veins
but instead remembers itself
on the earth as a skeleton
bones made of the
finest silver set of dining wares
for to feast
on the slack remaining
weightless brain of a thing
that spins the circles is sails
like a tailor
in a fire
Jun 19, 2012
Jun 19, 2012 at 6:00 AM UTC
You're late for the party
Late for the ball
Late in your red dress
Late for it all
Late for summer
latest update is your late
but we are still waiting
For you to blow us away
Your high fashion sense
Has left us in suspense
and your beauty is so immense
That I want you as my present in present tense
But you drive us mad
round the bend but the thought of you makes us pretend
that it would be great
but you are always
So...
So...
Late...
Dec 26, 2016
Dec 26, 2016 at 6:51 AM UTC
Lost my way in these salad days,
started to drown in your salad ways,
this distance keeps me from feeling whole,
causing disparity of the soul,
Cordially invited to share my fate,
you didn't show up, you were fashionably late,
Id packed my burdens in a trunk of desire,
but you stamped on the embers, put out the fire.
And if credence could talk and was given a face,
it would be my companion in this fall from grace,
but for now I’ll just accept my plight,
take a walk in the shadows, avoiding the light.
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 2:15 PM UTC
inappropriate name at it's best---
because they refuse to hold halves together
and hammers aren't the best choice of tools
and who nails a fingernail?
like twilight on icy mountains,
although the sky's colors come from flesh
and not reddened sunlight,
and the snow is empty as air
inconspicuously (fashionably) hidden skyline---
by color, but still there, granted
half-moons, waiting for dimethyl ketone relief
small as they come
unappreciated, underlooked---
as common and human as blood.
May 22, 2010
May 22, 2010 at 3:58 PM UTC
the skull and spine of seventy seven men, extracted.
retribution far past putrefaction.
a pile of bones in the center of town, at the corner of washington
& rochambeau.
gather around.
do you believe in the boogeyman?
a glitch in the darkness.
an echo of rage, high chroma bacteriophage.
every faithless father,
every sister spared,
every ritual sung just right, a brief blackout,
reconfigured pixels of outer night.
[bobby’s sega genesis awakens on its own]
thirty three years to the day, he
died on that suncrest boulevard, returned today just to say “hey.”
graveyard family tree and the moon.
first as a manifestation of electromagnetic phenomena
in a videogame’s cpu. 1993.
second as a fully-fledged entity materialized via videocassette,
hungry for pizza and pure vengeance. 2001.
third from beneath bedrock, the quarry belly baste,
a body buried thrice, undead toxic tumescence,
a walking corpse heaving black plasma. 2020.
the sequel.
the son.
the spectral chosen one, he
rips out a throat or two, quite fashionably so,
a man about town throttled and disemboweled,
as friends and neighbors stumble and sprint to escape with their own godforsaken skin.
let the bone collection begin.
emerged in afterschool hallways to **** old classmates turned teachers.
emerged in afterhours offices to devour old buddies turned bankers.
emerged in the quiet dark homes of neighborhood flesh and folk.
blood soaked socks.
why? you ask, must all these people die?
vengeance? no.
that was a lie.
he killed those people for a laugh
& that’s that.
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 2:58 AM UTC
Wrong
Wrung
Ring
Ring my doorbell,
Wring my neck,
Rid me of this mortal wretch.
*****
Wrench
Can you fix it?
Get your toolbox
You're ill-equipped
I don't qualify
Quality
Quantity
I am not enough
For this.
Too tough
To kiss.
Rough life I've lived.
Live
Life
Lie
Lay back.
Just take it.
Let it happen.
Swallow
Swallow me up.
Swallow me whole.
Throw me down into a hole.
Wholly
Holy
Even God forgot me.
Oh his drones did try.
Saxophone & sweat
Promised hell when I die.
Choir girls & Inquisition
Tore my words, tried to burn me alive.
Then the good chaplain,
Samaritan?
Charlatan.
Daddy out of the way,
Me on the streets,
Mommy where he wants her
Worship at his feet.
Fret
Bet.
I am not afraid.
My debt is paid.
In blood, in tears.
Lost dreams, lost years.
Country roads, cold beers.
Bare
Bear
Burdens
I am brave.
Strength
Truth
Power
You'll have to cut them from my flesh.
Fresh
Blood
Brooding o'er my funeral,
Don't worry about my death.
I still feel pain,
I still draw breath.
My hearts not cold,
My soul is still old.
I haven't set a thing in stone.
******
Skipping rocks.
Flying planes,
Sail away from the docks.
Shoot me into outer space,
If this is Hell,
Heaven can wait.
I'm dancing with the Devil
& God is always fashionably late.
Create.
Tell
Tales
Tails
I'm not done yet.
Evolving
Incomplete
Completely me.
Pecan pie & sweet tea.
Nature
Treks
Blessed Be.
Naked
Exposed
Second for the money,
First for the show.
This is a test,
No time to be gauche.
Gross
Shocking grace.
There's still sand in my grave.
This cannibal inside
Still has a taste.
Human body beneath my tongue,
It's essence still fills my lungs.
Chest
Heart
Beats against this cage.
I'm too young to feel this age,
So don't you dare save the date.
Once the wolf works with the mirror
It's finally free.
Then I promise,
You'll be seeing me.
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 7:28 PM UTC
Secretly believing someone is watching
And will benevolently arrive, relieve the pain
When planets collide, lots of stuff goes awry
Every breath you take implicates you deeper
The constant cry of babies being born
Expect monsters worse than you can conceive
There is a dark alley deep in hell
Where strangers go
She was swallowing a horse who
Stomped its hooves
Kicked her in stomach pregnant with you
As soon as you enter
Someone points a finger
Hollers, “Horse child, ****** child!”
Hen-pecked men and angry haughty women
Shame is the only love i know
A murdering mob descends upon
Somebody lynching Christmas tree ornaments
Why isn’t there God?
It’s disturbing to think
We’re all acting out of chump sensibilities
Explain to me again about sociology and greater good
How long can a smell last?
A week? A month? Thousands of years?
What if higher powers exist
Unbeknownst to themselves?
Death fashionably attired without face
The importance in showing teeth
“Caw, caw!” old crow calls, anticipating winter’s squalls
I fire up cigarette, blow smoke in the faces
Of those who said no to my dreams
I’m glad i didn’t know then what i know now
The cost of joy
Tomorrow is magnificent new beginning
If only everything hadn’t happened
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 11:22 AM UTC
*Oh my....
What a ******* **** sight you are
About 5'11" in your ******* hot *** ***** pink dress along with your **** long, gorgeous black hair and your fashionably seductive hoop earrings, enticing, Spanish green eyes and smile
Well you did tell me you were Spanish/Italian like Selena Gomez Definitely lit my ******* soul up and I felt myself losing my breath
You asked me what my name is
I said "Xoaquin what's yours?"
"Just call me little wet **** you said with your **** wet breath as you whispered into my ear
So then I said "Ooooh ok little wet **** You're so naughty."
I said "Listen you see that girl up there? Well I was thinking about getting a dance from both of you."
You said "Oh ok well let's go."
You escorted me to the stage in the center of the V.I.P. to watch the other girl until her song was over. The three of us went into the V.I.P. and you both climbed on top of me. I started grabbing her ***** but I started grabbing yours too. I was actually more into you. You're way sexier. I believe I told you that as we were by the stage
You said "You're very ****
I said "Thank you."
I then said "Well I know you don't need me to tell you because you already know that you are ****
You said "Thank you baby."
Fast forward back to the moment. Kaylie started putting her **** ******* in my face while you grinded your soft **** Latin *** up and down my **** You have great rhythm. Loved the touch/feel of your skin. I loved how both of you rubbed your ******* and ***** all over. You both have very thick round juicy tender ***** and I loved every inch of them. Every inch of skin. Every inch of thickness within my grip
You both smelled very good. I loved your scent especially between your ***** Felt/smelled so nice.
Hope I see you again "little wet ****
Even moreso I hope that I get to taste you next time*
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 6:34 PM UTC
i) up the stairs
red scarves and tight skirts
loose slacks and grey shirts
my how the landscape has changed
I can’t say that I love to be dipped into this *** of pretty
where the lipstick liner queens supreme
and the coffee is brewed to mitigate the colostomy retch
so I try a yellowed paper backed beat
but it held nothing to the shoebox diorama
of national care
where the alphabetised gates of ingress
more or less double as departure lounge
for the broken and spent where their god
might sit them on fashionably backed chairs
for the percentile of misplace repairs
or is it me that smells of warm ****
ii) down the travelator
a troll lives under the MRI,
moved on from the bridge by the gruffest of beards,
now working externally of the fable
beneath the table of the magnetic eye
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 3:39 PM UTC
fat monkey's with beady little eyes
wander back and forth along the kitchens edges
licking their lips and hungrily kneading their hands
while i tend the pots and kettle
wearing my best low rent apparel
and listening to only the finest of garage grunge
its miami gardens in springtime
and all the pretty people are strutting the boardwalk
looking for backwater bargains at cheap motels
she is here with me in her barley there bikini
fashionably perfect in all the politically correct ways
its perpetual summer in miami gardens
all the sour hearts on the phone making travel arrangements
the snowbunnys are out in force this year
can't step one foot to a western wind with treading on some ugly mug
but they are oh so friendly
don't you want to cuddle up with some furry little monster
its wintertime in miami gardens
she strips down to her birthday suit
and the monkeys start getting itchy in
their mohair leisure suits
its hard to get comfortable in your own skin
in the land of picture perfect bodies on the sand
so lets all sit down to eat
share a meal and a mile of road
maybe we can find enough in common to keep out the cold
thinking about miami gardens in spring
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 6:17 PM UTC
The glow of neon lights illuminates the spot he stands,
It is raining and their reflections are quite clear on the ground,
Using one hand propped up against a street sign,
The other holding an almost invisible, dark umbrella,
One leg crossed fashionably over the other,
Long coat, hood up, shadowed face underneath,
He waits.
Cars go by, all of any color, but really just one color; darkness,
They reflect the seafoam green, and cherry red lights of the lining shops,
The venders are fast asleep, for the hour is late,
Their shops are closed, but the lights show on,
The nearby pedestrians glance up at the man, the signs, but walk on,
But one girl, white coat, black hair, face in her phone,
Walked
Right
Into him.
He felt it, she felt it; there was a shock between their hearts,
For one split second, they shared a soul, a past, a future,
Neither said anything, they just, stared into each other,
The light shined in her stormy blue and his oak brown eyes,
Mouths agape, he slowly started to smile,
“It’s been awhile since I saw an angel on Earth,”
She gleamed.
“I knew I was waiting for something, didn’t know it was you-
Come with me.”
She went.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 2:29 AM UTC
thinned blood of the sickly
infused with my own sweet
rattlesnake venom given to
a dreamer with shaman visions
of a redhead and a drunk genius
painted upon the stone walls of my
reincarnated soul, an aged difference
who will write the stories
after all the tales have been told
and time ages into the grave
can a voice remain an echo
through times unfolding wing
or shall our fashionably late
arrival but announced in silence
and longing stares from skull eyes
the myth of the snake god
climbing up that mountain
surrounded in south american gold
composed in the hands of the star trusting
emerald isle pagan with sleeves of green
who loves to play every game
except this one.
when they bury us
i don't want to feel
anything, just the
rattlesnake inside
of me singing
Apr 2, 2011
Apr 2, 2011 at 1:02 PM UTC
the snow falls sincerely sorry,
like a pale yellow skirt at the foot of your bed-
i always said, "i didn't mean it".
but i meant it.
it's that time of the year,
where you'll wrap yourself in wool and leathers,
in hopes no one will feel just how cold you truly are,
but i can feel it.
you drink your whiskey straight,
yet feel too inhumane to rest your lips on the same bottle
as the only people who've ever loved you drink from.
your glass gets frosty.
you blow hot, pungent air between your teeth like steam,
in hopes we'll see you as some frightening machine,
instead of how you really are when you forget
that you should be holding up your fashionably unfashionable walls.
you're just another washed up actor,
who somehow lost the ability to differentiate between being on-set,
and being alive.
so you lie.
frantically,
frivolously,
and frusterated,
that nobody you trust can trust you to be you.
the scenes that you build get muddled and confused,
rendered too busy by your lack of attention
and over-use of the exact same hues.
you used to seem so beautiful,
until i found your pallet
under your worn-down mattress...
you only paint with grey.
oh, how you tried
to hide the colors that i am under a tweed cloak of comfort ability,
but i don't fade,
and i most certainly do not run.
i change every day,
and when i begin to hate the direction that my masterpiece is heading in,
i change course entirely.
i abandon the compass,
and the guide books,
and stampede across the pages,
until i become the new and improved version of who i was yesterday.
stop pretending,
and just be.
you wear your "fight" face everyday,
as if you may have to chase a pride of giggling hyenas away
at any given moment.
put down your knife and act right,
no one here wants to hurt you.
you hurt me,
you tried to hide me,
and you lied to me.
still,
all i want to do is teach you.
teach you to let go of your charade,
to embrace the life you've made,
and how to paint the sunset as a sunset-
not a eulogy.
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 3:16 PM UTC
sirens blare and shutters close,
we sit calmly in our humble abode
until we smell the smell I’ve smelled
a thousand times and going strong.
we joke and skip idly around the stairs
in a fashionably orderly manner,
like in an empty amusement park.
“the fire smells good”, says someone,
and i nearly choke at the absurdity,
but i have to agree, it smells like
nostalgia, the plumes of charred plastic
filaments, remnants of 3d printers
bringing me back to better days.
as the chaos rolls along in the background,
we order truffle pasta from the vending machine,
giggle at the firemen who lost their way
and watch the sorry-excuse of a smoke
trailing away into the blindingly blue sky
as the exhausted sirens blare once again.
Mar 19, 2024
Mar 19, 2024 at 9:21 AM UTC
We shot the movie
in chrome-based Black and White
Thinking we were '80's hipsters
with a sharp postmodern overbite
And three days later
we were cracking up
in the editing room
over a three-way monologue
on horrible lighting
in midday TV living rooms
Well that was July
and now August is ******* us off
My fashionably long hair is turning mulleted
and I've picked up
an off-season cough
And now you're somewhere in Brooklyn
trying to catch a break
Your hair's been cut
into a schoolboy's bob
and your new friends all
look like fakes
I'd never thought it'd be you
when I'm staring at a screen
it's funny how later in life
we focus
on what we once thought
were inbetweens
Our old friend is working like a robot
trying to make the weekend fit
I guess he supposes it's better
to be lit up just for christmas
than for the constant party graveyard shift
And I guess I'm supposed to believe you
when you tell me
"it's all still pretty fun"
eating beans for breakfast and supper
and spending Saturday nights on your own
But maybe I'm just jealous
there's probably a lot of truth in that
I suppose i'm just getting nostalgic
for the days when I was the only boy
who could make you laugh
The three of us never cut it off too severely
so I'm banking on that long weekend
were we'll meet up in some ex-undergrad hangout
and pretend we're all still best friends
"If we were born five years earlier"
Remember, I used to tell you
"We all won't be so cursed
I guess you were right in saying,
"our lives are going to take on the plot
of Metropolis, but in reverse"
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 8:50 AM UTC
I once laid in my bed content
With mama’s prayers tucked in
Listening to trains far off across
River trestles on rails stretched
To places I could only dream of.
Beginner’s luck
The magic strong.
Reality and dreams
Synonymous.
Early the seeds of wanderlust
Planted.
Talents forged of
Cardboard boxes and
Old trunks in the attic
And of games with friends
In woods and streets.
Old Mr. Robling’s eyes looked
Beyond . . .
Child’s play would end
Someday.
That day eventually came in Linear time
But much longer to this
Wandering mind
That thought beyond the grade
School desk when my adolescent
Peer’s noses were buried deep.
Wander and travel lust left this Boy
Rootless and restless when time
Came to stop chasing mirages of
Greener pastures.
He then looked up and saw
His little one’s grown up
With a somewhat similar
Bittersweet taste of chasing
Elusive islands
Of emerald green
Seen as lush vivid images
On their
Built-in larger-than-life
Neural GPS screens
Programmed to ****** the
Wanderer into the delusion that
They can take extended or even
Permanent excursions far from
The
Great
Gray
Banal
Sea.
Not very long ago this ageless
Boy was forced into settling for
Stark reality. But he is slowly
Growing a bit more comfortable
In his own skin.
The grass is still a bit green
But parts are a bit dry
Patchy and crabgrass ridden.
At least it fashionably matches His soul . . .
Poetic justice for trading
Most of your life for the elusive
Obvious.
I still cling tight to my childhood
In my own non-linear time of
One hundred years ago
But far too young in linear time
To be residing in
A tired old body
Which defines age as value was Once
Measured by quality not
Quantity
And as those running the track
And roaming free over Thousands
Of acres of wide-open plains
As opposed to those put out to Pasture
Or waiting in line
At
The
Glue
Factory.
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 11:33 AM UTC
Drove past a mansion the other day,
high on a hill,
grand and stately,
with manicured lawns,
and wrought iron fences,
adorned with Morning Glories.
Then I drove on,
to a cozy little house,
swingset in the yard
and a trike in the driveway.
It may not be much,
but it's mine.
Walked past a gym the other day,
sculpted forms of the human physique,
active and graceful,
growing strong and healthy,
fashionably decorated
with the latest workout attire.
Then I walked on
to a medical center,
examined and tested
a barely passing grade.
This body may not be much,
but it's mine.
I went to the park the other day,
a cheerful young woman,
pushing a giggling child in a swing,
while another built castles in the sand.
I may not be much,
but I'm theirs.
Feb 19, 2010
Feb 19, 2010 at 11:07 PM UTC
She is accompanied, by either mild disdain or comfortable curiosity, but always with magnetic eyes that do not spot the glints of time traversing through the shadows to pass her. Eyes glued to the screen, as two reflective sequins, shining opposite of the captivating screen that has momentarily captured her attention. Often squinting with head tilted slightly to the side, unable to give in to the crowd which fashionably wears the smirk of approval. Or with eyes drowning in the hatred of the Legion of Gerasenes, yet still yearning to not be cast aside. Tangible threads begin weaving the cloth of empathy, as each falling grain of sand counts another responsive brain wave reacting to the current. Unsure if these words filtered through the mechanisms of defense forced upon an individual after so many disappointing tributaries, or if rushing claret and voltaic storms of lucidity invited the passing guests. Unsure if you can overcome the luring request of the daughters of Achelous to settle the sandy shores of contentment, or, for just once, endure the salty trials with enough zeal to alter course and navigate to the unfathomable.
Feb 2, 2012
Feb 2, 2012 at 11:24 PM UTC
* Fashionably Unexpected*
the devil had arrived but as the sun was at it's peak
the invitation was for nine, but in the evening
of next week...
he was naked save the toga, and his flaxen locks of gold
and a massive crop of wings, slightly mussed; -
adroitly posed.
i had just been in the garden, plucking apples from a limb
with my pruning shears and sherry
and no clue it might be him....
but there i stood astounded, having thought -
" I heard the bell ? "
and again
by ' Who'd ' Come knocking
on my mallet chain
from Hell.
the devil held a mirror and a silver box, ornate
with the likeness of a lotus and an acorn
on a plate...
the gilding was perfection, and the mirror was opaque
but the fallen one was flawless
as the smile upon
his face...
and how i broke the silence in my simple garden threads
was to ramble at the Serpent
as I handed him a Jacket.
Amused by my conceit that any custom i condone
were applied with an epoxy
Only carpenters from Rome, that were spotless and
And from Nazareth
with a Father
and a Ghost -
A Mother without Blemish
and Disciples in a grove...
And blessed be
the Mercy of the Lending
of the glue
by the resurrected Handy Man
and King of
all the Jews !
The Morningstar obliged!
But held the blazer
in rebuke
He grimaced His Displeasure
And instantly
for proof
He dismembered my regalia
and assembled it anew
Into such a splendid Toga
There was nothing
I could do -
but simply step aside
as all the sting
had let the ruse.
I received the Prince of Darkness
Wearing gloves and dirt and boots
Oct 3, 2011
Oct 3, 2011 at 10:59 PM UTC
She’s a tragic prodigy of her time, hammered nails and spring posies
Playing peek-a-boo to keep the cards from running out
Beautifully highstrung forming charts out of tomorrow
Ghosting sunsets waking up with clubs and spades
What is the the horizon but a roll of the dice, 1’s and 5’s
She’s cloaked with grey roses spun out of lace
Stars tell the future reflected in the dewdrops resting on her pillow
Fashionably awkward and impeccably immaculate
Swansong embodied
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 4:30 AM UTC
sitting in my seat
all I do is think
saving every breath
counting every blink
thinking fashionably about death
I watch their eyes begin to wander
up and down each others’ bodies
I close
stick a hand into my thoracic cavity
and pretend it’s a clock to wind
backward through time
like they do in magazines
and in front of well lighted storefronts
and downtown mini malls across America.
any beauty column will tell you the tricks
and what you have to trade,
every weight has a balance
and every product has a price.
hands in your pockets
chin in the air
eyes on the pavement—
almost there,
almost there
button your buttons
string your shoes
"I think I can,
I think I can”
you can’t, of course,
but the emptiness of cleared out commercial blocks
and brown brick buildings
and wide streets that are empty in the night
they all call out
antagonizing you with imposing angles
narrowing density
constricting construction
walk away from it all
hide your naked figure alone and cold in the crippling dark
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 3:48 PM UTC
don't text him right away
wait a year,
get married,
keep him guessing.
arrive fashionably late to your dates
wait an hour, or 2,
or just don't go,
keep him waiting.
flirt with other guys
kiss other guys,
**** other guys, marry them,
that'll make him jealous.
tease him
don't let him touch you,
don't let him **** you,
hell get a mastectomy,
that'll drive him crazy.
don't be the first person to say I love you
don't be the second,
don't want to seem desperate.
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 9:50 AM UTC
Hear the motions of the engines,
Speed South to North,
As well North to South,
Care not they, the sounds they make.
It is a confession.
They speed in the land of ****
It increases, then decreases,
As they travel past, the open window,
Winterless blast, a confession,
It feels close to spring.
Care not a bit that sounds, rude, to those who tomorrow,
Will wake up to snow, while the blizzard sounds here,
Are the rush of thoughtless trucks and cars,
Which are driven at speeds above the posted limit,
Even if they don't have to travel so far,
To get home in the drizzle, to their green grass.
Maybe snow would slow them down,
Or keep them off the road entirely,
No, no, not them, they are rude,
They have this attitude,
Drive like this, no matter what the weather,
They are better than the conditions, they drive in.
Another confession, they are in it to win, and no one
else knows there is a contest and contestants.
What a surPrize!
Hand him a sextant as he drives at night, after all he has to navigate,
Through Facebook and Likes and texts and bytes of downloads from
YouTube...would not want to be fashionably late in reply otherwise
Your social life, and status,
may die.
Trafficking bad habits,
Instead of "look out for the other guy or gal"
The phone and the life it holds,
can be dropped,
"worse than a dropped call",
is all the sirens wail as they go by,
Life in the balance, ghosts
White knuckling it with one hand,
While eyes are fixed, to a deathly white screen
And fingers dance solo in some sexless act,
The result is the same a distracted fact,
The mind is no longer in the car,
It has left the body already,
Waiting for it to die,
Watching from above and reaching to all
Who have fingers and a phone
Wanting to be ghosts and sticking to the life,
Which will make it happen.....by accident.
Drive defensively,
Leave your phone in the trunk.
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 1:47 AM UTC
Dreams are polka dotted at Walmart they say.
And though this is true they do not taste sweet but
Acidic like those
Models plastic like
Paris's **** you
Know what I mean the
Stringy ******* and diet
Coke **** diet
Coke and oil in bottles we are no machines whatever
Happened to green leaves and sun burned skin our
Words and tattooed bones when
Did we become dumpsters dressed in
Black
Or silk chemically nourished and fashionably
Stern **** fashion and
You too your
Oversized coat and
Brainwashed **** we
Need to start dreaming of
Creations in the night in
Every string of hair and
treacherous stem I hate
Bleached hair and red lips more than I
Hate Bloomberg
Oh ***** my smoked breath
I’m lying again and
So is he and
You and
Those polka dotted dreams.
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 6:04 PM UTC