"I am not a pretty girl"
"but he said she-"
(they were dirty whispers that she
kept inside a crystal coffin,
she a vague descendent of some
vampiric mathematician who
seemed to have suffered from palindrome
syndrome and never let the edges
of curiosity's cube surrender
to the cooler curves of chaos
when the going got too tough and
the not-so-tough got crushed)

"iam no ta pret tyg irl"
she wrote it down, a stream
of slowly coagulating clotting
cells that stick and stuck and slick
together with a mush mashing
and a strangely silent slapping of
the glue that tears and repetition
bring when one has watched a
lilly wither in the spring,

"she said she not a he said pretty heshe girl"
the writing scrags along the page,
the dripping and ripping of the ink and the trees
while the little rolling ball just spins
and slings itself around again,
spitting out her dictionary with an increase
of empty convulsions and dry heaves
that make her want to scream because
the worst is when she's empty and the words
grow roots like weeds and not dead
flowers that the world had once agreed
were lovely in the breeze.