I'm white satin, and I think that everything is random,
coincidential.
I'm a strand of pearls, broken and lying in the middle of the ballroom floor,
scattered.
I'm punk rock, destroying the invisible lines with my anarchy,
hypocritical.
I'm slash, bittersweet and bloody until it all starts to sound the same,
cliched.
I'm Billy Martin.
Beautiful, inept.
Illiterate.
I'm Marilyn Monroe, Marilune Monrune,
sewage paved in porclain, seeping at the edges, dead to you.
I'm in a love with an English writer, because it's easier to pretend this way,
happily disillusioned.
I'm the Clash, clash clash clash like cymbals and no, Joe, you're not dead, because I don't know you.


My father says athiests are crazy, that you can't deny that there's something. He believes in vampires.
Always said that scientists were cold, bitter people,
the anti-fairydustedrosepetals.


I'm stuck in the pincushion of mediocrity,
typical.
I'm wicked twisted thorn bushes framing the witch's tower,
grossly unsatisfied and yet I yearn not to know every word but to have wisdom to choose the right ones.

(whispered) sexiness is the confused, beautiful, be-eyelinered poet penning angst in pink gel pen, his tongue toying with the cap.


I'm leather and cigarettes and men and cold nights and mohawks and black nails and water and yoga and cherry lipstick that stains,
sucker.

There is poison in my stomach it's disgusting it tastes like brine or bromine and somehow it reminds me of Hermosillio evenings though the stench is more putrid and I truly wish now that she'd be finished, gone, not dead but dead to me, so that I could go on breathing without the guilt she inflicts with her plastic butterknife I wish I could love without her watching me, but there are times when nothing can be done and it sucks to cry because then it's like your living in a chick flick romantic family drama in which the teenage daughter has been pressured into sex by her good for nothing boyfriend whom she shouldn't be attracted to but God, he's just got that bad boy appeal and no, I don't want to be alone right now, not when the wings of that gargantuan fanged creature are making such a racket, banging on my window sometimes I wish I was a coke addict for though it would give me more troubles perhaps it would help numb the pain why is it glamerous to be depressed we laugh at these wonderful old psychology books from the 50's but does it occur to us that maybe we with razor blades in hand are crazy?

(or is it all a staged drama to make us feel gloriously pathetic?) this is what he would write.