I have no idea what inspired this. oh yeah. a photograph. it was interesting. I don't know. shut up.

It is all over

last night we put a
bullet hole in the dancing girl,
a few flashes of chrome in a
photograph to

immortalize her as she died.


there is something more complicated than
love - it is death,
a vain death, staged so we
all can become voyeurs just for
tonight, when the girl
dances her way toward us
knowing she will soon
be smoke spiraling
up to the ceiling.


it starts in love, as it always does,

the girl tucked in a backseat (really
it does not matter whose car), her
flesh just this side of human, powdered
just this side of enviable.

she wishes they would all
get out, get out so she can have the
backseat all to herself, like
a rock star like someone people would
recognize. she wants this just for
tonight, she wants to dance so
people whisper about her,
she wants boys turning around for
a second glimpse of the first human
eclipse, only to meet with an afterimage.

and when the sound begins to
threaten shuddering displays of violence in
her brain,
she wants to will herself not to
stop now, to keep going just this once
so she can transcend and perhaps
even vaporize a little so she'll
emerge a little thinner.


all that matters now is that she
enchant, sculpt contours
like an architect of the flesh,
oh -

look here, everyone,
she has arrived ready to move,
she wants to move for you, then
your friend, then him,

all the while never really moving because
she's more liquid than solid
tonight, so liquid we are
almost unable to raise the gun,

because who ever heard of killing a waterfall?


but we do find her in transition
and she knows and still
slinks, an unabashed mermaid tonight,
unblinking to trap the light,
unafraid to reel us in -

she is drawing us in she
is a fisher and all of a sudden we can
see she just wants to dance for us,
it's all she ever wanted,

and even as we realize this we
murdermurdermurder and

it's all over.


we turn to leave but cannot take our eyes
off the masterpiece swelling there on the
ground, she has not died for nothing -
she is at last a work of art.

but it has taken so much time for her
to find herself hiding behind this
act of love, so many years of ducking
in the backseat of whoever's car,

and all this time it has been exactly here,
this veneered hardwood her blood now
invades, and as the epic draws to
a close we take one photograph,

just one and she is finally smiling.

but is it over?