A tyranny for Delirise
The audacity!
To bitch everything I have,
to lay and laugh in love, top heavily,
in a meadow full of brain dead.
(So if I were pretty, I would do this and this and this)
and this:
Elle Progesterone—
The most aspiring in visage.
A valley girl with a flair for stalkings,
parodying out her mother's insanities,
leaving a trail of bruhs in her wake.
She looks a wreck in the makin' it rain.
Her short skirt handicaps, high heeled bejesus click clacks,
thigh moss through the main river cerebrum,
to awry herself in pearls,
something classy, yet wigged,
with her overly elegant cigarette cheers.
5 kids, or an autopsy?
Would you rather...
Hard boiled ovum,
her love letters spread herpes,
'tis an itch which begs the chainsaw.
Hard boiled romance.
In which a john is called a trick,
is the feeling of orgasm
which wears off the money
exists in her pearse.
You held her legal tenderly.
You mink stole her heart
with your raging debonair,
but was it porn, or was it aHrt?
She sent "I <3 u" in a text—
God bless the flesh.
Drunk
and
useful
and
drinking
to
deaf.
(After a hard day's nothing,
I fix myself a stiff
Virginia Woolf and tonic).
So mere's to
that harrowing, heroined thing that goes bump in the night
wearing the EXIT sign like a name tag:
PLEASE USE OTHER ARDOUR
She lives within you something ovular,
but only if you kiss and tell,
in which case she shoots for the largest mass—
ring on her finger, gun in her hand.
Back seam hosiery barking liked a bitch named Brittany,
and by "bitch," I mean "chick,"
and by "chick," I mean "babe,"
and by "babe," I mean—
She adds cream and sugar to simplify the coffee
and drinks it for the energy
to become
what we love
to detest.
(Smothered in shrugs, I hit the Dennis instead).
Bored by dying again?
The shims of her garters.
Exquisitely death row.
Her fried magnolias.
Falling in and out of flailing as the fashion sees fit.
Why is she on Facebook
when she should be
on heroin?
She is a knifeful of flutterfuck desertion.
Only when your wings are clipped in defeat will she let you sleep.
(I won't quit you until you are riddled with me).
Cry before you die, snort a Luke 6:31 of bleach.
A tranny for Delirise
For the dove of god,
my dervish dare,
the Nijinsky of dreams,
you are
the Nijinsky of dreams
in swaddling fluid blush,
to whom I croon and coo
the duende of Gribouille,
hatched from a bloody holy,
though dead without a rape whistle.
Your ribs are all roots, rosed-in
beneath an old oak of a moon,
and I can only really love you
lavished in poem.
Bedecked in the feather finery
of infinite canary isles.
You would punt the sun
for my starstruck admiring,
and we'd beach babe
while cursing all beautifucks
for reminding us
of missing
the mark
which begs
the gun-shy
to egress from blue landscapes
of the world's most painted paintings,
our selves
in egrets.
And I know you'd rather die
trying to embrace the moon's reflection on water
than be their mermaid.
Barflowers drunk on prisms full of Rhine water,
hallucinating freedom incarnate.
It was then that we knew the narcissism of subtlety.
You were the one for whom I'd recline
face-down in the irascible sky fontaine.
Alsace of the ether,
master of the flutter,
apples rouged to the cheeky keen.
It was then that we knew the disadvantages of sadness.
Two peas in an escape pod.
Running in place with our very pretty ghosts,
to Lisbon, to Berlin—
all the places we'd pretend.
You'd save me a bite of your leftover Everest.
But there was no amount of hypnotic suggestion
that could've made us believe
we were not Miss America.
And there certainly was not any therapistemology
that could've taught our hearts
to finger themselves.
An elegy for the living Daedalus
Anita, my dervish, dare devilish mystère.
Cause of death:
Woke up kidneyless in an iceful bath.
Prior to the rude interruption of cordial cherries,
we were both wolves and Jackquelines last we meth,
contemplating whether or not humans have wishbones,
it was about fossils, but it was also about friendship.
It is because of this
that I feel
that I've room of one's own
enough
to wry about
you/it.
Anita, a stay-at-home soap opera,
more of a pleaser derider
in numinous mood swings,
see how she swan wings,
ridder and ridder of room.
Anita:
Occupation: Capricorn.
Professional trimmer.
When I stared at her face it was blouse impregnate,
and she provided all of the sparkles necessary to a lifetime.
Laissez les cocaines roulez.
Alors, Percocets.
I am in love with her,
high
and in light of.
Allow me together my cupid's closet,
heartstring theory and Valentine's groin:
My darless regardling,
the bestest preposterous,
your g-spot nonpareil,
you fringey Romanesse,
I know how to turn leaves ghey,
and I know how to be ghey
for you.
There I was, love lettering
the moon of direct address,
raspberry pornography through a glass of wine, retardedly,
so I sped away with my hard-on behind me
in a much outdated snow,
disemboweledly Easter.
Anita, goth weather,
all I'm Omsking you
is whether you'd ever allow me to leather your head entire,
as the coffee pot menstruates.
She takes these things as bird flu.
Anita:
You are no Maude nor Beulah.
You were not born at forty.
You are not a corpse
until people start vandalizing you.
Yet here we are now at your funeral,
and the sadder and sadder Miguez,
the more I appreciate thee,
and thy paranoia about the soap on the wind,
thine lipstick's boobs' mascara's London Look,
thy Gynaeceum,
the lump in thy titty that we thought was a puppy,
the roaches that ate thy folle, fouelle,
thy dead man's float on a pile of potatoes,
thy head full of drought.
Her blood insinuates.
Anita, my deer, assez.
Dormir.
You are more INFP than this:
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