She wears Prada from head to toe
All eyes on her when she steps in..
She...
breathtakingly a beautiful goddess
She...
Femininely revealing ....
Provocatively showing...
Her Silky white flesh hidden and revealed...
Is it the dress?
No..
Is it the face?
No
Its the body
No
Is it the *** appeal?
No and Yes I guess
So help to define **** please....

**** is not always beautiful
Being beautiful is ****...
**** in your eyes
Pretty ugly in mine
**** is hard to define
isn't it?

blue dress- it is soft, it shapes around your chest like it's supposed to be there, and you begin shaking with no end in sight

white feather earrings- your face is softened and you remember you don't want to be soft

blue beaded earrings- they match your dress and your dress makes you want to die

bird earrings- they are small and bright and you curl up on the floor and wonder which parts of you are real

moon and star earrings- they are small and pale and no one but you can ever see

sun earrings- you shiver and don't think anything

blue crystal earrings- they are the strongest form of feminine you have ever had, and you remember buying these from a street vendor, holding them like some strong piece of the world belonged to you

peace symbol earrings- they are small but familiar enough to be recognized and you feel sick in your throat, your face, every part of you that accepted peace is aching, you want to tear it out

blue stones and dangling silver hoops- these make you look like a woman, which is a familiar future you have been told of, and you realize just because you understand it doesn't mean you want it

dangling iridescent gems- these make you look like a girl, she would love them on you, and you decide to give them to her before you remember she's changed, now you don't know what to do with them

warm colored striped dress- it shows all your bones and still makes you look so soft, you are so, so cold

black feather earrings- these feel like how you used to try to be strong femininely, both of those at the same time, and you tore yourself apart for years not understanding why it was so hard, blaming yourself

black beaded earrings- these make you look like femininity comes easily to you, as you wish it didn't, these seem to belong, as you wish they wouldn't, and these are so heavy, just like everything about this, you are still shaking

silver rose studs- these are small, indistinct, you remember being familiar with this small amount of femininity you thought was necessary, and you twitch violently, something itches, you are hunched

black pants, shirt, jacket- you have a body, in the most abstract sense, and now no reasonable person could call it what they wanted

spider stud- it's small, looks metallic, and delicate yet menacing, like you never could be

I have spent many hours over the years
Staring sadly at pictures of girls with delicate pale skin
(Much like mine, but without stretchmarks or scars)
Who wore soft, flowing dress
And high cut shorts
And flower crowns
And lamented mentally the fact that I was not small
Or delicate or sprightly enough
To wear flowers crowns and pastel dresses and golden sandals
And I have spent many an hour soaking myself in the sadness
That who I feel like inside and how I feel I have to express myself
Because of my size, the width of my hips, the set of my shoulders
Were not things that matched
But I am trying my best to remember
That the bulge of my stomach
and the thickness of my thighs
And the stretch marks trailing over my skin
Do not make me unworthy
Of dressing delicately and femininely
And I am just as much allowed
To wear gauze and flower crowns
As the next girl

She sent a package
tied in this biege tweed cord.

It turned out to
be a picture of you two
at the lake,
that day it was cold
and she wore that beanie with the flames,
her hair all curly and escaping,
your lips all red and chapped.

A folded note tucked on the inside
of the frame reads:

"I have Connie,
*******

Love always,
smiley-face,
smiley-face
smiley-face,
smiley-face,
me."

­Connie: your/her rat terrier.

You put the picture
in its black frame
on the tv table.

The tweed
you nail
to two spaced planks
on the wall above the tv.

It's like abstract
modernist-expressionist-
constructionist-art.

It's just one string.

A taut cord
of brown tweed.

The black night comes,
over and over,
over and over,
she doesn't return,
but the tweed remains
as taut as a fingernail
or an exposed artery.

Somehow
it's so human and obstinate
that the woven vertebrae
seems to curve minutely
and femininely.

As time passes,
the tweed moves
from beige
to golden
and gravitational.

A call to a friend goes something like this:
"Come over here, I've got this amazing thing on my wall."

The friend, Eric,
calls more friends.

The friends come over,
all piling around this golden tweed
after they've taken stock of the kitchen
and Wild Turkey.


They take turns
plucking it,
thumbing it,
putting their ears to it,
and studying it,
all
at your insistence.

Somebody,
******* Eric,
coughs in the room.
More people begin to cough.

Eric walks up
to the the string,
that is nailed at top
and bottom
on two spaced planks.



Eric gives it a final hard tug,
snapping it like a belt.

the tweed hums and shivers off a few flakes
of dust and amber material.

"I've just wasted five minutes
with this thing,"
Eric says

to the string,
and you.

Eric speaks for the group.

He turns and leaves,
taking the whole group of
twenty
with him.

They trail behind Eric
like a great, long tail
flicking
and knocking things over
in your apartment
out of sheer agitation
on the way out.

The golden gravity subsumes you.

You do not close the door behind them,
you can't even hear their tiny, black voices
as they all clamor into the elevator
and ding.

Our Lady visits places where no man has trod asunder
Places where the hand of time has kept them from the sun,
Places where the roiling earth hath ground to rend like thunder
Where history, as we know it now, had barely, then, begun.

With elegance she burrows forth, with elegance a seeking
Tended by her retinue of young, admirers’ lithe,
With elegance she sinuously writhes within containment,
To elegantly strive to shape her contour, uncontrived.

So femininely fabulous, admired by all and sundry
Her deadlines met assiduously, taken in her stride.
Secretly she smiles the smile of one who dwells thereunder
Who secretly entrances with her quiet performing pride.

Fare welled on her journey by adoring crowd and bunting,
Fare welled midst a sea of flags by rotund Prince and child
To coyly disappear from sight with retinue of admirers
To reappear with fanfare in a year, to drive men wild.

Sinuously spinning in her secret world beneath us,
Spinning and beguiling in uniquely female way,
Alice holds our promise in sweet dreams and aspirations
Our Subterranean Goddess…Our Lady of the Day.


Marshalg
Plant Co-ordinator
The Wellconnected Consortium
AUCKLAND.
27 January 2014

**Alice is our giant tunnel boring machine. She is currently 40 m beneath parkland and housing in Owairaka, Auckland. In 12 months she will emerge at Waterview to be spun around to burrow the return tunnel back to the point of origin. These tunnels will form the completing stages of the modern motorway system in Auckland. The system, which will be completed in 2017, will revolutionise the existing transport network and benefit the people of Auckland and New Zealand for decades to come.

bad *** babe I met
a while back, we hit it off
immediately
then she confessed
she has been in love three years
and it took my breath away

I told her to keep her hat on
whilst we danced
and she curtsied
so femininely I **** near came then
we talked warily
then it seemed like I knew her

I saw she was much my other side
a reflection in the mirror
the yin to my yang
the flip side my nickle
pretty and shinier
and her

I wish I could make a nest
like  out of limbs and twigs
found things and make it beauty beyond a robin's nest
to her
to make sweet sounds
whistle

pose my tail feathers up

Tinkerbell fell
from the Christmas tree
opened her wings to
flutter
femininely and touched
down very close to me.

I was surprised as surprised as could be to find Tinkerbell swearing and not just at me

Christmas and trees while pleasing to me
had the opposite effect on the fallen faerie.

Bandaged Skins

As sweat lines the collars of the femininely shaped boys,
While their voices crack with desperation,
Bandages cover the chest of some as their heart is shattered by the unbearable burden of unwanted weights.
While fake smiles and shattered hope lies around the dinner tables at night for some,
While others are hiding within their room when dinner bells ring.
While some get used to the cold long nights on the unforgiving streets sides.
While others learn to hear the never ending battle of true love and true family.
I am to be what they do not wish of me to be.
As today’s society only cares for what we see as “Normal”,
The Abnormals get pushed to the side,
Dictated on who they really are,
Forced to become and be seen as what they do not  wish to ever be seen nor called.
As some kids lie awake at night thinking about their own ways of ending it all,
As some kids escape reality with a silver lining and a red flowing river of uplifting truths.
While blood shall never determine who I see and feel myself to be.
While some kids get used to the taste of the burning sensation of alcohol on their tongues and lips.
And others get used to the sting in their lungs and the everlasting high that escapes the bongs, the pipes, the needles, the straws the blades that they all used to escape the hateful truth of today's society.  
As some walk the streets proud and tall of who they truly are to be,
As some break with each step as every day is just another battle within.
Fear strikes when school comes for some,
Fear strikes when work comes for some.
As we all are judged by a single glance of the untruthful eyes.
While news lines rage with the discrimination of today's world.
While gun fire get mistaken as a car engine,
While the sound of the physically, emotionally, verbally and mentally abused get hidden within the crowd behind the metaphorical mask that they wake up to wear in fear.
I am just a boy,
A boy that can no longer see nor sing,
As my world breaks within the battle of politics,
Why should politics decide who I am to be?
Why should others tell and speak with hate filled voices of who I am to love?
As Love should be free,
Love should be apart of everyone's life,
But as we grow older,
As the air becomes harder to breath.
We are mistaken love for hate.
We have mistaken the word Hate For Love.
As this World Discriminates the sight of our  kind,
As though we are put into separate files.
As we are not Seen as Humans, But as of beast plotting against the Humans.
Toss us a bone, We will not fetch.
Toss us a pile of trash, We will not scavenge for food,
Toss us your bullets at hand, We will not break.
As **** becomes acceptable in today's society,
As the tearing of there skin break from the forceful movements.  
Alley ways become the new **** center and boxing ring as We can no longer walk through.
We choose to walk through them as though we know the eyes of “angels” will see and judge us of what we are to be.
While they point their fingers and laugh at the sight of a poor innocent child being physically harmed.
While they whisper ***** lies in the long dark hallways.
While church bells ring for not a new wedding.. But for a new Death of a Young One.
As The definition of pride becomes more distant in today's society.
As We all are Walking on the remains of history.
History slowly repeats itself as though we are to determined to ****.
As we grip the guns at hand tightly as though we mistaken Guns For Pride.
As Bullets at hand Get mistaken For Useless Toys.
As our children get used to the sight of the Fallen.
As Now,
We all Cry Out For Peace.
We all wish to not Barry One Another.
As The dirt lines our nails as we Dig the grave for the next.
Stop the fighting.
Stop the Wars.
Let Us Be Us.
As We Will Never Break Within Your Circumstances.
We Will Stand Tall And Brave As We are United.
United By One Another.
A Wall We Will Become.
Forever We Shall Stand Strong Against Our Beliefs.