music is a lover
or though it would seem

girls roll
their clothes off slowly
smiles are shouts

as though touch
could jolt you
into reality

pose in the a-typical
profile declaration,
make you body
believe that you want

and him
and them

in the corner
of the street,

vomit on your
way to the car

expose one breast
for the hell of it, leave
the other tucked inside
your bra to keep for

dance as a masturbatory
act of impressionism

prostitution being
the penalty of womanhood;
a kind of gregorian
afterthought; keep
the baby even though
you don't want it,

carry it to term
give birth in
a fastfood bathroom

starve yourself
to become queen
of the hotbodycontest;

forget to pretend
that you once had your
fathers penis in your mouth
and your brother might have
been the father of your dead

daughters born
in summer die quicker
than those born in
the winter months -

two woman dance
as though men were
obsolete, you drool
across the page, competition
for who is the more
straightforward in her
wanton comehitherness;

a woman is everything in
a picture where she herself
is center, a monster
acting for the camera.