show pony bitch

ribbons in your hair.

you were born

to be a one-whore parade,

rouge on your cheeks

while basking in the

womb.

there was no question which way you were headed.

pageant queen

in between

lover

hater

headless narrator.

beauty was your shtick,

commercials your

metaphorical potty seat,

preparation for the throne.

success was written across your mouth,

taped shut with bloodshed lipstick.

uneducated, we regret to inform.

newspapers

politics

continents

dirty german sleaze

you never knew,

could never handle.

fragile, oh yes,

being born with a silver spoon in your throat,

making it hard to breathe.

only the best,

you were the best.

BEST IN SHOW.

some fucking dog,

fed scraps from the grown-up table,

sleeping in genocide fur and feathers.

but they didn't know the inevitable.

obsessed with excellence, perfection,

greed

lust

wrath

shit they knew they'd never need.

the sick, the poor,

annointed by formeldahyde,

"WE WERE LACKING DONATIONS."

but little miss shit-face

high-heel bitch with your rigorous diet

swimsuit body,

I KNEW YOUR FUCKING FATE.

i laughed at the sadness of it all,

leaning out of my mercedes,

towards you,

dirty cunt,

feeling my mind boil,

fifty clutched in my manicured hands.

seeing you on the streetcorner,

me hoping this makes up for your fucked-up shit life

and lost hope-denied degraded childhood,

calling softly,

"can i get a quick fuck, honey?"