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And So
I’m not good at
anything.
that’s what she says
and when she is done she cries
and the red bright letters numbers
and the premenstrual syndrome
that is the only justifiable reason.
and when roses bloom in the clichéd light
Of yesterday’s evening
you never had to be perfect to entice her
an odyssey of strangers never ending in a land never wanting
the sigh of the world who envies the moon
when she cries she wants a god to be real
Aphrodite to shower sweet blind love in raging fires
that never pour but they rain
a mist that hides the everyday, a mist that tells her
you’re gone
and she
is all alone but oh those silky trains of cliché they bother her so much
shut up, go away, don’t come back ‘cause I don’t need you
to survive
and yet
the sunset winks and blinks and thinks
purple ink a rage a rush a fiery-! and ah the waters of
sweet cooled hot boiling mercy
like microwaveable fudge.
and so, with that creamed smile, the glitter, the glamour, the rouge
Poof Glinda vanishing in a pink cloud
incense to drug you, incense to make you dream of opium
and so, with the swivels and turns and swishes
she is not
that
she is not
this
she is not
this or that
and so, with her eyes so lit in tears of saddening joy and
irony that rushes like the careless entrepreneurs we are
and so,
this is it, the finale, the exit, the ending, au revoir, goodbye, that’s it, no
more
hah.
bravenet.com