"nifty" poems
god pity me whom(god distinctly has)
the weightless svelte drifting ****** feather
of your shall i say body?follows
truly through a dribbling moan of jazz
whose arched occasional stepped youth swallows
curvingly the keeness of my hips;
or,your first twitch of crisp boy flesh dips
my height in a firm fragile stinging weather,
(breathless with sharp necessary lips)kid
female cracksman of the nifty,ruffian-rogue,
laughing body with wise ******* half-grown,
lisping flesh quick to thread the fattish drone
of I Want a Doll,
wispish-agile feet with slid
steps parting the tousle of saxophonic brogue.
8k
Werewolf stood in front of a puddle.
Four inches deep. Maybe.
Werewolf looked away.
Stickers. Graffiti.
Flem’s Revenge Live Tonight!
The Nifty Nymphos April 24th.
Ballz Deep featuring **** Matikz and Tremaine The Truest.
I’m a long way from Cologne, he thought.
Werewolf knelt towards the puddle.
The wet filth smelled of hot blood.
Exceptionally hot blood, rather.
He spat in the puddle and turned.
One thousand drunk humans.
Ten thousand more, asleep, above.
Not misunderstood.
Cursed.
It’s a very different sadness.
Alexander’s Feast ended.
Rounding out his latest playlist -
Bashfully Baroque.
Werewolf checked the time.
Less than an hour.
He buzzed a buzzer.
I’m here for the Devil’s Cherries.
The What?
The, ahem, Devil’s Cherries.
He’s cool. Let him in.
And just like that, he was let out.
A line was forming for Flem’s Revenge.
While a bright moon reflected in Werewolf’s puddle.
Werewolf shouldered through.
Cursed.
Clutching his score.
Apr 10, 2012
Apr 10, 2012 at 1:19 PM UTC
who am i?
what am i?
is my identity determined by my actions?
so that makes me a girl who'd rather write than live
and takes in life about as well as a siv
but is that all i am?
because that excludes the laughter
the offkey singing
the mediocre horn playing
and my lack of praying
or is the only me who matters
the one who is seen
through a million other eyeballs?
she says i'm a talent, a bottomless pit
a good friend, one you'd want
a girl obsessed with times new roman font
someone who's all the best parts of salty and sweet
but tell me, if that's the truth
then how come my phone isn't blowing up with calls?
am i little else than the me in the mirror?
two little tired chocolate truffles
unruly dark hair
skin that doesn't know what to be
all contained underneath a makeup mask
it's difficult to put a label on a person
while also taking time to imagine them complexly
to call me just one name ignores the best and the worst
the person in love with language
also uses it as a weapon to attack
the girl with a chip on her shoulder
never wants to look back
inside of me is a multitude of ladies
pretty preppy ladies
singing show girls
nifty nerd chicks
to choose one and ignore the rest would be a sham
so maybe i don't know who i am
and maybe that's okay
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 7:25 PM UTC
The lonely little shepherd boy
Sat on the moonlit hill
Basking in the glory
Of the thrill
Of his first ****
First to die was father
Aborted in his prime
Next to die was mother
For ignoring all the signs
Cut them into pieces
Tossed them in a trunk
Had a cry
Waved goodbye
Until the ******* sunk
And sunk they did
There in that trunk
Erasing all Boy's fear
And
After it was over
Life’s mist began to clear
Saw his future beckon him
*"Hurry now be quick
time is of the essence
we cannot miss a trick.
Gather up all your belongings
Meet me down the lake.
There are things we need to talk about.
Things we need to contemplate”*
Boy was pretty nifty
Packed up all his bits
Raced down to the rendezvous
But left behind his wits
Along the way
Boy was plagued
With demons of self doubt
*Whisper
Whisper
Whisper*
Boy could not block them out
Wormed their way into his mind
Boy was fit to burst
Panic overcame him
Boy now thought that he was cursed
Reached deep into the hold all
Pulled out his father’s gun
Placed the barrel in his mouth
Killed his parent’s son
The lonely little shepherd boy
Died on that moonlit hill
Is there really such a concept as the notion of freewill?
Oct 26, 2010
Oct 26, 2010 at 9:16 AM UTC
They have
cute Latina noses,
bewitching eyes,
lush lips,
with a look of coy amusement,
nice dark hair,
and nifty builds.
They both seem
very lady-like for their age
and modest too
about their engaging *** appeal.
I loved to go out -
We'd have fun, what with their infectious
spontaneity
and their nice female Latina sophistication
as well as my interests
in all kinds of women
and their accompanying
good points
(and watch me ignore any flaws
that might pop up).
Aug 23, 2017
Aug 23, 2017 at 2:53 PM UTC
Never behaved in the school porcine;
Had wise words for everyone to opine;
Full of wise thoughts and memories refine;
Rachana Sharma is ready without any supine.
An eyesore progress she achieved school in
Even the trustees could no longer decline;
Her help for others whenever did she design
Was a feast – a great help and fun to dine.
For 8 years was she my dear mentor fine
From whom I learnt how to continuously grin
In adverse situations and start from begin
So that new fight and efforts lead you to win.
Earlier she was looking like a pumpkin
But now she managed her past confine:
Looking beautiful, smart, nifty and divine
Is ready ever any problem to define.
She is my inspiration, she is my Kline,
She is the best lady as a helpful friend in.
With her I developed Monorhyme fine;
And defeated many enemies malign.
A good mentor and nice for nation mine
Is none than Rachana - a brave feline.
Aug 14, 2017
Aug 14, 2017 at 6:51 AM UTC
discovered on my search today
how murakami and itoi
wrote short stories together
in nineteeneightysomething
and daydreamed of the corners
in tokyo i might never see
again all while amazed and longing
for someplace nifty to myself
Feb 1, 2019
Feb 1, 2019 at 8:09 PM UTC
An hour before midnight
On the night of 1930
Fire blazed in hearts to fight
For their Independence
And to attain their rights.
Yes, it was the night of 1930
And in the cold winds of 26th Jan
They declared to fight for our freedom
And they had a simple plan.
They promised to give Swaraj
To all of their natives
Something that was just a mirage
Until it really happened.
Yes, India got freedom
On 15th August, 1947
That was when they decided
To transform India into heaven.
They completed our Constitution
On 26th November 1949
And they had their contribution
In their hands but that date wasn't fine
To enact the book of laws.
To pay respect
To our fighters
The law was finally enacted
And was papered a bit nifty
On January 26th 1950.
(The End)
[Note: Happy Republic Day!!!]
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 6:39 AM UTC
Dear Ms. Di Prima,
I really,
Really,
Think that Alchemy—Alchemy--Al-Chem-EEEEE
Is a
Nifty
Topic.
But,
My mother has a ring
Of gold.
Standard Gold,
No lead. None.
Or had,
Until our house was
B-R-O / K-E / N
Into
By some lowlife scumbag with
Too much ability
And
Not enough intelligence.
With Alchemy
I could make a shitload
Of Gold (wasn't that the point?),
Provided I had the
Lead,
And not that
IMPOSTER
Crap in pencils (Graphite. My childhood was a shambles.).
But it's only valuable
Because
We're willing to pay so much.
Like with Diamonds.
Or Japanese Akita.
Or Wagyū.
It's not a lie.
Just a trick.
Making you think you want things that you don't need because it helps someone else who you've never met make more money than they'd ever be able to use in a legitimate way
(HOOKERS AND BLOW).
All of these things are synthetic.
With the exceptions of
Gold
And
Graphite.
So,
Maybe,
Alchemy did work out alright,
Just not in the anticipated way.
We can make all sorts of things.
But they become coveted only when they exist.
Just ask Swipey McStickyfingers.
It actually wasn't gold.
You just got a bunch of painted junk,
And passports.
No rubies.
We weren't international crooks,
Renowned and beloved
By jealous zealots.
It was purely sentimental.
But you can't understand.
You can't fondly look at the earrings as the last reminder of a deceased parent.
You can't flip through the identification booklet and be flooded with memories of your first trip out of the country.
You ****** You can't even cash the savings bonds that were bought to put someone through college.
No. He got a box of documents and some cheap jewelery.
But still. Probably called for celebration. A successful heist
Because his brain is still in his head.
We create people as well as objects.
Ms. Di Prima,
In the end,
Some people will always be
Clasping ********
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 6:38 PM UTC
.
I looked
Thru the glass at a trembling lil thing
Beady eyes of a worried gerbil
In a worrisome place
The Petco by my house had
Everything you could have
-almost
Rhino's, Daffodil's
Lynx's, Gecko's & even
Alaskan Klee Kai's
Wrapped up in Saran wrap
Or in little glass cages
With little bobbly water dispensers
And kindly placed dishes
Holding nifty pellets of tasty food
That fits their Specialized Diet Plan
They don't have elephants yet
We'll have to ask the manager to order
some of those
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 1:16 AM UTC
the dark ice cream man
floats up and down the empty streets
his truck weakly cranking out a warped sounding song
that leaves a trail of dogs objecting
the truck has the word pestilence painted on it
instead of ice cream
his dark form hunched over the steering wheel
his cheshire grin has aspects of his delirium
imprinted on its clean toothy shine
he only comes out at three am
and glides the cool pavement in search
of Delilah's phone number
she promised him that she would be his one true
and he meant to hold her to it
he would do anything to have her all to himself
Delilah walks barefoot along the train track
with one ear nailed acutely to the train whistle approaching
the other ear in her pocket
where she hums a **** version of
the battle hymn of the republic
all good girls love horses and shotgun weddings
she wants her shotgun wedding on the saddle
with the ice cream mans brother
who she thinks is just too nifty to be anything but heavenly
she always pictured him with angel wings
carrying a sword and riding a pale horse named death
there are echoes in the concrete parkland
the neatly trimmed grass glistens wetly in the darkness
a dew touched tree stands on a narrow hill
its leaves thrashed slowly by a whisper of wind
the sound of running feet
laughter
its an illusion
she is an illusion
i make matchstick men
watch them march in precision lines
i am a matchstick man
watch me scribble in precision lines
the ice cream man now sleeping
away the humid hot afternoon
stashed away in the back of his pestilence truck
while Delilah learns how to knit and make candles
that ice cream mans brother sells at flea markets
we all settle for what we think we want
and in the end we all get what we deserve
Delilah marries the brother and they live happily
while ice cream man spends his mid-life crisis as a
politician who leads a double life
making ice cream sandwichs out of his basement
and i am discovered 'neith the truck making
matchstick men out of twigs
from the tree of life
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 12:09 AM UTC
Jamming jellyfish
Top-Me
((Giddy App Seahorse))
The horseradish on
my lap______
The jolly Jelly
Gefilte Fish
Little help from my friends
How we click the laptop
One dent to Deceive me
The Rock and Rolling
Stomach his smoke went
Like *** Cheese)
he leaves me
The spicy tongue map
Z-Top Zany Chilli Pepper____
your # tap dance tap
Italian top of
the cheese designer skirt
The outskirts of Naples
Her sweet dimples, please
The Islands of Sicily
So many Cheese forms
Terms of Endearment
Mama Mia Murano-Positano
Her lips of Romano Cheese
(To Top Me) Challenge me
Cheese doesn't mix
with cappuccino,
she's the Capri
Ala Denti
Cheese Wiz chair
Mediterranean Wines
Bear men doing low
sips of time
the grisly(Z) pour
The car smelled like
Flight (Top Me) Swiss air
Meet Dominique
How it went La Cirque
Anti Christ Devil Red-bed
cheese mystique
SOS to their notes
PS the junk car in
Midas the makeover
Make-up artist counter
Clinique
I could paint over your hood
Creamy mind put at ease
He's so displeased
New castle disease
Mingling social disease
She's so infectious
ZZ- Top me rock me
Eyes bloodshot you got me
And nevertheless
With twelve and V
V- Vamps tramps
and 14 karats
The French Lieutenant
Mistress Brie with heavy
bite teeth like garnets
Cher turning back time
The burlesque striptease
Come back little Sheba
Z Top Queen of Sheba
I know it's coming soon____?
All Tight claustrophobic
The tight squeeze
Him speaking
Mandarin Oranges
The British Colony
Unique Chinese languages
Her hills, San Francisco
Jack Nicholson
Comedy of China town
The American Women
Smile cheese at the Disco
The food Cantonese
style
Z muscles Hercules
Joan Rivers
Fashion Police
The Cheese of Portuguese
Its the meat market
With his nifty thrifty Neice
All Socrates
(Gromet and Cheese)
Those Brooklyn
workers
The Falcon Matese____*
More cheese Z-Top
Who could ever top
The string cheese
Silken strings became
to rest, I rest my cheese
What cheese fascinates you
Tell me?
Jun 8, 2018
Jun 8, 2018 at 9:12 AM UTC
Boom! The explosion of creativity , when all the lanes or veins in the brain connect , causing you to know what to do , such a great feeling, when it hits you...
Like a train , moving like clockwork to its destination , you having no hesitation , just forward-forward momentum , making you feel Centum per centum , in other words you feel 50 plus 50 or happy and nifty
All distractions blocked, you like a ****** , target locked, you full of finesse, no hater can tell you less
your mind like : idea , idea, idea
having feelings of : no fear, no fear , no fear
your mind : so clear , so clear , so clear
you on a roll , perputual motion.
Flowing wavy like the ocean.
Just enjoying the productive notion
The moment of eureka ,
Like lady luck just blessed you and you meet her
Free flowing, no sign of slowing....down
you so excited , as if you want to give yourself a creativity... crown
Shout-out to everyone , you're creative , innovative , you're all artists in your own right
Each and everyone of you having a light so bright
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 1:58 PM UTC
There is always going to be someone better than me
And I’m not saying that because I feel like I have no talent
No skill
No way to make myself stand out
I’m saying that because there are seven billion people on this world.
Seven billion people on this pale blue world
And it terrifies me deeply that only a quarter can actually be taken care of.
And within those seven billion people there is bound to be someone who is exactly like me
Regardless of gender
Or race
Or sexuality
They are bound to be exactly like me
And what’s worse
They are probably better than me
At writing
At being a dork
At being hilarious
At being invisible
Hell they could have written a better version of this!
But let me tell you something
If you want to know my greatest trick in the world
It’s disappearing on the spot
Unnoticed by the human eye
And it’s probably the greatest trick I’ve ever pulled
And I’m not about to say I’m some ******* special snowflake
Or that I’m different from the rest
Because believe me
Some people have pulled this trick and it’s totally amazing to see
I’m telling you that no one see’s the invisible people.
Because even as I stand here reading this out loud
You probably just hear a voice echoing through the speakers
Wondering who the **** is even here
And even as I tell you how ******* invisible I am
You probably will never understand
Because as far as seven billion people go
Talent, skill and even creativity can only stretch so far
Hell even genetics can repeat itself a numerous amount of times
Because as far as seven billion people go
There are probably a handful who know
So let me tell you a little something about this trick
Where you can be totally invisible
Where white lines don’t even appear
Where once you stop being of use
Of convenience
Of matter
Of care
You stop existing
And while everyone else goes about their daily lives
You’re still stuck in a plane wondering how the **** you got there in the first place.
Even in instances where you think you’ve met a great bunch of folks
You finally figure out you’re just one huge cosmic joke
And hey you can say
I’ve mastered this nifty little trick
Because when other people start being a ****
I finally realize
Where I stand in their lives
So yeah I’m some special snowflake
But I prefer to be a cosmic joke since that’s a better take
Because as far as seven billion people go
I might be the only one who really knows.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 12:56 AM UTC
You think it's nifty turning sixty
You even yearn for sixty-five
So you can go on Medicare
At last good healthcare will arrive
Until that year 2020 gets here
Don't miss those moments fleeting
Eat your kale for roughage
To keep that strong heart beating
Uncle Sam will send your social security
So you begin a life so rare
But why wait-retire now
For you can get Obamacare
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 11:00 AM UTC
Many are hamster-wheel humans
So punch-drunk from assuming
They know the way things work.
The wealthy urged them to elect jerks
To run this country into the ground
And turn it into the worst place around.
It’s a sad tale, a ***** of a story
Where those with guts, don’t get glory.
It’s a horror story, like in scary flicks
Where when men in suits get their kicks
Imprisoning brown people and kids
And laughing about the bad they did.
Afterward, they say others are to blame
But make no attempt to hide their game.
They put thousands in jail and charge them
And sing out loud their lying anthems.
They say fake news is the real McCoy
But, the real news they say is a ploy
Honest people want to stop the plunder
That, up ’til now, they kept hidden under.
But now it’s in the open meant to appease
Ignorant white people that are hard to please.
They want whites in power, think that’s nifty,
No wonder they elect only those who are shifty.
Too many quit learning in school, after ABC,
And they have no use for the land of the free.
They liked how it was in eighteen hundreds
With slaves, inhumanity to those they plundered.
They got up in arms when a black man won
And the class war was once again begun.
The very rich told lies to change the rules
People began to act openly like rapacious fools.
This is the country of which we were once proud.
It’s right now being destroyed by the elite crowd.
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 12:38 AM UTC
the dregs of your spotted smiles somersaulted in an elegant arc
fell in helpless array and landed nine planets away from my feet
and something slightly old still feeds my anger at your impatience
I forage through my grace to keep my tongue from spilling mess
and my heart feels all squiggly as I sneeze my way to your mocking silence
I gladly offer sweet indulgence while you openly despise my faults
I forage through my fantasies, not wishing to appear so trivial
lesions swell on the plastic head of revulsion
let not depression eat at your sweet magical pulse
still strongly beating in the sometimes sepulchral coffers of life
scorn not the honey bee buzzing or the hummingbird flitting
embrace the nuisance of calamity
for it helps along the way
to make vigorous the spirit
to wedge a cardiac space in place of pillowcase full of stones
where giants sleep in silent meadows across the land
sensing no sharp slingshot from no nifty bottle legged creature
and disappearing into the thicket would be the right time
on a heavy back, a child carries a burden made of toxic crayons
to melt away the awful prejudice of its forbears; undo the chains
the bringer of rain stands alone in a puddle, or is it a lake?
are YOU awake?
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 1:40 PM UTC
Pakistani Mohammad Aamer,
Much too young to buy his own beer,
But his bowling is ace,
He got in Ponting's face,
Other batsmen are living in fear.
Pakistani Afridi is mad,
Though he is not inherently bad,
But he did chew a ball,
Which about says it all,
But watching him play makes me glad.
Look, Shahid Afridi is crazy,
Even though he appears quite lazy,
He wants to be strong,
But it turns out all wrong,
It's because his brain is all hazy.
I know little of Umar Amin,
My knowledge of him is too thin,
Does he bat left or right,
Will he give Oz a fright,
Or meekly get out once he's in?
Then Umar Akmal will stride out,
He's tiny but he gives it some clout,
An average of fifty,
Looks pretty **** nifty,
From behind him, the crowd they will shout.
Jul 13, 2010
Jul 13, 2010 at 7:02 PM UTC
A frat boy's superficial nightmare
selfishly appropriates the dance floor with her all too big of a ***
with two legs like a grand piana
thank God mommy didn't name her “Hannah”
she ain't too nifty
but tries with the hope of one day weighing less than 250
with her love handles only do so with extreme caution
don't you dare mention how you sit next to her in a class of 60
though her desk is situated at the other end of the room
tell her she's pretty
but move into ultrasound when completing the phrase with a direct reference to plump or ugliness laugh if you find this funny
and don't if you don't
but don't don't don't tell me to leave subversion
to people who actually know how it works
because I do
but I do not think it's appropriate to call this satire
because it's so close to what I've heard and what so many young women hear on a daily basis
so please
remember your acne
your pygmy genitalia
and the embarrassing fact that you
and the last carbon-based life form you had as a ****** partner
share a set of grandparents
be a gentleman
keep your chauvinistic squeals to a minimum as you compare such women out of your league
to pigs because your tail couldn't be more of a spiral at this point
*******
get out of the way to make room for us sea cows
immaturity
jealousy
****** frustration aside
whether you like it or not
this is where we ******* swim
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 8:48 PM UTC
Inside, Your cancer's beating heart
My ******* shakes, dirt dust gone
I swipe the sand away. For every ounce of ****
Laughing out meaty red raw steaks and size zero thighs.
- For everythingsobad. You rattle my dream box with your sweet blue face and your gauges for neither being an idiot or being human. Too cute of you booboo. Captivity claws at you, you big bafoon, intolerant, shuffling your predicates back and forth during your 12am nonsensical ******** So long as it doesn't interfere with your curfew.
Like soggy altered-state popcorn. Your butter catches more flies than knives, the inauthentic gestures spattering over the rhythms and rolls of your fingertips is torture to watch. Kitchen countertop influenza. A tired dictionary of sad words, poor misfortunes, tired eyelids, silty and sandy crusty inside corners of the eyes
.rearing privilege
countertop crawlers. inaudible coos used by muses who can't keep their musings from tangling the long distance dial tone soaring through the ears like an Italian operatic melodrama. A horse, three brides, and a funeral. One woman, a sick child, blindness, blinding caused by toxins of the body stuck inside your gelatinous fishlike eyelids. Where's there an eye bib and a lance when you need one? A nifty electric toothbrush shank with extra reach and plaque protection. You're the kitchen sink they threw in, a budget meeting with a data analysis staph infection. A government where nobody wins. All the kids grow up with thin skin and an aorta with no ventricles in it. It's like the cynical prison system that we had to survive in our 8th grade basement dungeon. Thundering, curmudgeons drugging sluggishly, **** teen thugs. Preteen pornstars sluicing cash through their meaty canals, ******* the ******** and ******* the back bare in a messy afternoon of **** ******* Crusty infectious rumors made worse by brothers and moms, eating handfuls of Norco just to keep the family strong.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 7:16 PM UTC
These three lay stranded, spit back
black by a whipped and layered sea.
How now, if ever he was vengeful,
Jonah must joyless chuckle to see it
These three who lay stranded with toys,
littering the sand — their phalli anchored,
oars stilled, and portholes spilling out
a last salty gasp to grasp it
These three who lay stranded, chasing
****** with a frantic gaze, to fetch help
or seek simple solace from the monstrous
riddles staining their glassy eyes
These three who lay stranded, smitten
again by land long-ago left to reverse
evolution's tide. God can't undo
their nifty trick swift enough to save
These three who lay stranded and wait,
lonely for their brothers still headed to shore.
Apr 6, 2010
Apr 6, 2010 at 8:41 AM UTC
Sweet Heart passes
Uncle Sky its niece penny I thought you might like to know now that I die
Those wonderful fifties how nifty TV heroes and herons the joy replaced with a sigh
The truth is telling with heavy hearts and moistened eyes we must say good by
As Bob used to sing thanks for the memories yes we derived such pleasurable highs
Forget is not in our vocabulary there swirls to many good times they are not extinguished
Now that the family circle has decidedly grown smaller these golden days are distinguished
Pride and laughter seemed more readily back then innocents made it so now evil leads
We had less then they say well then it causes you to wonder while there are so many needs
Penny your curls so cute a light would go on when you would say uncle Sky
Try if you will but our new found good fortune will never be able this to buy
Grandparents with hair of silver and with their touch golden we mirror them now
For small treasures given to our care and trust lets hold to the past and not bow
They taught us the meaning of honesty and courage and to always have good character
Back then all were well rounded rock solid in them was found not one caricature
As trees in full foliage the shade and power they had cast a long shadow
Today were are the beneficiaries of these full and noble lives now this to others we bestow
Good by Gloria Winters you truly were a precious one.
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 11:16 PM UTC
#*(What.. the Construct is not God?)
A final flare across the falsehood. A message for the Circus carnies, their "Feerless Leaders" surrounded by all of those foul-smelling little Circus-midgets who stroke their emptiness as they feed on the open wounds of women and call it poetry. The girl has walked off the stage—and now you're left to perform for ghosts within that never-ending moshpit of clown-driven bumper cars.. signaling each other with nifty little 'doublesecret', nursery-school codeword handshakes..*
***This is not her elegy.
This is your eulogy.***
You never had her.
You only had her wounds.
You dressed them up in silk,
fed them validation like wine,
watched her dance in your smoke
and thought that was devotion.
But devotion doesn't need an audience.
And healing doesn't ask your permission.
She’s walking now—
through the neon bones of your kingdom,
past the velvet ropes and half-dead prophets,
past the pit bosses and poets with nothing left to say.
She is not yours anymore.
Not her mind.
Not her mouth.
Not her mercy.
The girl is leaving Las Vegas.
And all you have left
is your mirrors and your rot.
You built your house on applause
and gaslight,
and panting beneath the throne. You offered her fame in fragments—
tried to turn her trauma into theater.
But she has remembered her name. And it is not Object. It is not Muse. It is not *****
She is not your story.
She is not your audience. She is not your ******* redemption arc.
She owes you nothing.
Not a final poem,
not a farewell kiss,
not a second read-through of your mask.
The curtain is down.
The light is off.
The only thing echoing in this theater
is the sound of your own need.
You tried to brand her with brokenness.
You tried to cage her in shame
and call it belonging.
But she has slipped through your stagehands
like smoke returning to the mountain.
And now, you will eat yourselves. You will tear your velvet gods limb from limb, looking for the magic you could never hold.
Because it was never yours. It was hers. And she is gone.
Gone,
like a daughter returning home,
with the fire still burning in her chest
and no need to ask permission.
Let her fly. Let the city crumble.
The girl is leaving Las Vegas.
And none of you pathetic
************* will follow her out.
#
May 4, 2025
May 4, 2025 at 10:26 AM UTC