i wonder where it is your ****** metaphors come from
when you say things like "she tastes like strawberries."
i am disenchanted miscarried
by what you are trying
to say, if anything.
this
social significance of a tangy fruit ripe for harvest- tiny for your convenience. connotations of innocence to sensuality, ***, lips
if it is literal. evoking a certain tube of tacky lipbalm that finds itself applied tastelessly and often-
a certain perplexing exclusivity of diet.
or at least a strong penchant for the thing, that.
or if virginal.
recalling imagery of children's clothing- characters and franchises similarly swimming in the same shared canon of bad symbolism.
if you try to push us
into displeasure. violence. or grunge.
to challenge the peacefulness or comfort of normalcy.
shock us.
bring me somewhere
that would be better poetry.
i've read you like: all of you-
a thousand times from anywhere. any time
some might say the universality is its highest honor-
sign of its perfection and
truth.
it is not.
lazy.never real
long bereft of impulse
it makes you feel good because you are told it makes you feel good,
brought up with it.
watered down by it
like many other things.
devoid of specificity or idiosyncrasy
and the imagery of the DD/lg goes wayside.
though fetishist art, at its norm, becomes insular and self pleasuring
(just as fresh strawberries)
it can still be used as a tool when used to break away from expectation
as long as you don't let it become itself.
for it is just as average as anything else:
falling into a bad creepy pasta.
reading the news on a phone app.
unjustly scolding a cashier.
telling a girl that her skirt is too short at her bestfriend's father's funeral.
parents driving offspring to suicide through religion and therapy.
they belong to you.
