i'm going Renaissance to Baroque. i am darlng to revisionism; this enlightenment moves. introduction to art. hard back book cover. this is expensive. this is important. know it b/c it's yours. it's the generation's of originality. and i'm so bored.
i talk words w/ pictures. i admit i'm feeling strange; i'll break your bed. everytime i pick up a pen.
what do i say when asked if they've hurt me. "no sir. no sir. i feel fine. perfectly neuter. no less a girl than that. i don't need you for my belly. i've got babies up my sleeves. asexually producing the kings and queens of this country. and their sons and daughters and whores. yes. yes you hurt me. you devil. but no less a devil for that, no not any less than you, the black man w/ the meinkampf smile who bit my pretty red heart in two. and if i've killed one then you've killed three. you can lie back now."
"hu." i say wryly. and I had vomit coming through my smile.
sh. if i'm not to play pretend knowingly then I will have my pretend withall the elements. oh world, i'll shake thee and thy fossils out.
so I stood in my backyard explaining i'm a girl w/ a styrofoam cup of ashes walking around dead plaster plant bowls and that my house faces north, talking about stars in between the electrical wires. and post-modernized pseudo-intellect CRAP. but i sleep like you do.
i've got this collaboration. come and watch. leave me a note. and tell me what a writer i am. i am your opus. stir stir. i told that boy to build no house and i'd make him a good kitchen. w/ my marble bag full of gods.