he has been whispering in my ear
the violent history of math
for these past so many years

drawn out passions
searches
behind doors,
obsessed darknesses

and in reply,
I throw out TV motivated
meanings
the old time film stars,
femme fatale cigarettes
in my noir world

the stuff dreams are made of

other then love,
where have there been more deaths
cited in the name of?

What other monkey animal
wants a two foot horse dick
up the ass
and dies from it
but the one that builds
empires, states, buildings
then knocks them down?

the traitor of me
claims
that this (I am) is too blunt,
crude
(as a people who
worships flower gods
watch mesmerized horrified lovingly
brides walk all over
their beheaded icons)

I don’t write about him any more.

ideals I (we) lived then
were made up
based on books I read

The numbers, he whines
I can never get them
to come out right
and speak the human brain

Well, life, mine anyways
is divided into periods
between giant sized
iced coffees.
Milk, no sugar.

Don’t be cute
he
scoffs

Hey, you still need the fairydust
even if you know the way
to Neverland
and I ain’t no tinker bell
cause

Baby, I am the ultimate film noir bitch.