and she wields her hips like weapons,

double-edged sword maybe or something a little

more intoxicated, a drunk sway never could compete

with the switch of whipping bones, calling down

all the little raphaelites in heaven throwing jealousy

like holy hellbent stones

 

and if she has no beginning, the longest movie of all,

then where's the end to this story, where's her mortality?

it's in her lovers, in her friends

 

and on her rap sheet she's got failure to concede,

a forgiveness and a grievance against her, pushing harder

with willpower she can streamline doors into nirvana

into starry morning arms, well if she's too dirty, too dark

with tattoos and piercings and a general's removed wrists

(she channels che guevara, she commands joan of arc)

at seventeen she wrote a revolution and MADE them listen

well if she can't be president and if she can't be queen

 

she might as well be god