Smoke Patterns

So used

(so dirty)

she who drowned outback when she was sixteen;

I wore combat boots all through high school

they shimmered (black) perfectly

against my blue dress

and kept my pale legs warm from the puddles.

So used

so abused

he won't put his hands on her,

his hands

only venture on himself

he watches porn (in it's graphic centerfold)

uncurling the layer of shiny metallics

layer the bold (or so he was told.)

He lives his life between pinched fingers

(do you



I go?



here - I scream back.)

He said sing along,

concert pianist

to reminisce about when I danced on Pointe

(the pink shafts bleeding into the mud)

back, when

I ran away from everything

that felt sloppy

and into

the arms of everything that felt (g oo d)

- I just want to run

so far


so fast

(when you move the pain doesn't last)

it just passes you by - lie for me

if it makes a difference - but don't cry for me

about the fear you have:

(Is it better to live and learn

or learn

that you're living - along the way ?)

fake me into solid matter

the everlasting splatter of your moan

(alone) over the phone

humming Rachmaninoff - soft - aloft -

already used

she cruised the summer paleness

when the sky binged baby blue at



dusk -

he doesn't believe in girls who know more

then he does -

he doesn't make love to me


just fantasizes about it.

His dream is of virgins

pale in their purity

(who's your daddy?)

but he cums to naked

blonds; shielded only

by their stretched silicone.

At least what I have is real!