stop touching me

because i let you fuck me
ugly
post-paid dinners on saturdays with
other girls
pretty
and easy

to please but hard (your dick) to get (her)
come
home
another evening please and take it out on me.
tasted at sixteen on a second turn, never learned
to go slow.
like photo-framed girls who like rear entry and yellow roses
like being told un-photogenic or
on your knees, slut.

i validate
-glossy girls matte girls framed girls blown up and cut up girls locket girls happy girls-
they validate
-salacious boys, animal fucks, anonymous purpose, name mistakes, my lovers-
who validate
-hand on head fist over mouth nails across chest slap sound face wrists pressed bound names dirty/called-
validating I.

And that is why
while we wait
the prologue is unmade and unmaiden
unsuited for this grateful bedroom with red
because all he ever said was
I like to get head.

again (say yes)

there is too much pressure, mister
distance can sing songs, mister
space inbetween souls sit in silent notes across a
treble clef I studied in suspended breath.

seventh grade diminishes, and the latest will take
twice the dissonance of the last
embrace. To feel a thing. Things that do not
feel to me like a thing to feel

but they come and they go
for what or for the why does a chain stop a clink clink clink
sink my sly smiling legs, shaven
for the women,

jean attack a mission and messy hair a meaning,
the popular and the culture ain't my
ain't. grey shirts. major scales. A line of love
platonic to my sea-salt shaker, i forgot to bring you

my sugar addiction. my
salting and icing and must have forgotten from reading fiction.
I am surprised you never knew
from the times I drew love and conclusions in

our ships and sex.
Stoned fixes in first-year death by gaining
fifteen pounds of wisdom - none the wiser they say to my
face. They say many things. I stay many things.

one thing is clear.
When you come in accoustic, I can hear
library sounds in a staircase backdrop, backing up
drops in my throat, wipes on my knees, the night

behind a quad park.
the auto-saving no knows how to stay low
but I did not - pinky swear on a breath, never to
say yes.

intelligence? irrelevance.

like a thing could mean a thing, saying
smoking is for quitters
since i quit you:
it has come down to fire lighter flesh
seven am fall asleep to
soundless tones in a sunrise by birds
i am a bird,
british and fictional like metal chemistry is to
fish. i am a fish,
five second songs about love and magic
is not
ripe
enough critical inquiry and belligerent "my theory"
glasses make without your hands on my head.
we had plans to watch
hush
make molasses
and there were good times.
splat splat egging splat.
ten pounds of refuse or ten pounds of
show me a bruise.
show me a single stray pubic hair.
talking goes

and goes.
scar tissue - it all fades, all fades, all fades:

(bad bloggers are my heroes)


how can i describe in zipped files, flying,
coding, signifying, the raw insides of gracious
hatred: study groups failing my poetry sales,
and walking passerbys stare, like

America's police of my waiting day-job and
his shirt is white with "I'm A Keeper"
but all I can think about is Harry Potter:
going green and tissue paper. Scrap.

Giant furniture stores selling my modernity away from me,
the day my mug stains reek of Ikea's wooden,
Sweden, sweet-virgins in sweater shops, the day I
stop.

Still. Standing, but I have no legs to offer
under the table. Why,
I am not undatable. Look,
I share my soul

on data correlation studies (ones and zeros)
and I like starving homeless beggars
because their connecting limbs still connect and they do not
marginalize the alone.

Oh my god.
Oh your god, what?
Oh give me a second to gather my thoughts
alone - will you?

People glare because I am not pretty and only
pretty girls sit solo.
Only pretty girls look straight at baguettes,
smoke cigarettes,

but they don't die young like the
unrest rest.
"[Eye]
might be ugly, but we have the music."^




^FOOTNOTE: L.C. set it as a mantra for the very obvious
and oblivious best of us.

Lucky Ladies: From Sylvia Plath to Janis Joplin

is that tommy?
walking like tommy,
so tommy,
I hate tommy.

staring spatially to stardom and la bella vita
tattooed on baby bearing bottoms,
doing what you gotta do and will that
damn anorexic stop walking by my sky?

Terrence, I am with you on this bridging run of
release (one more night, one last time).
Morgan, I could blame you for altering states
of a anti-heroine's mistakes in

three's or four's - the roses come in dozens but
beauty not insofar as good as janis joplin's
voice like a searching heroine searching for
heroine. Howling in Khakis on a gap

advertisement - are you giving in or showing sin?
On a sunless day, I sat without sleep to hate the
tommy's, sucking
on Lady Lazarus' tits, jealous of teardrop size not stretch

marks. The audience will lose the actor to a staged
encore encore encore and never the before, or
for the absolute despicability of handpicked
divinities, choiceless like humanity, childless

like lesbian existence and everybody wants
spotlights' screaming PAY ATTENTION TO ME.
I tell bullshit stories.
Write from fiction wrists, covering up with speed

to be like a One. November leaves. I stay to gather
pamphlets about the nature of geniuses,
matte copied and finger brushed,
saying nothing about the struggle,

the
day to dusk to desk-light to "she dares to be different" that
Janis Joplin:
dares to death,
three times the nights in less than thirty years.
We'll attest to your songs and
tribute to your namesake.
I'll even wear a thong to your funeral because you would have loved to know we fucked your lows with
hunger and throes
dug our own sinkholes and buried you between the legs of
walking tommy's,
seething for your beauty,
seeing my own,
and knowing what we only know when we are shiftlessly gearing with the very ephemeral invincibility that smells like a secret under badly written book skins: Like we could have done anything else with public-spaced lives, like we could have summarized a night with "the nights" or written the ugliest poem of miserable, heinous, autobiographical poetry without committing the almost crime of
sullen
surrender,
salacious
sacrifice.

The tommy's smile in lectures and at slides,
they love the beauty and write the lies,
leave it to Terrence and Morgan to watch a western
sunrise.

The tommy's cry when lyrics break down
(the end of a sad song) (the end of a night)
(the end of a schizophrenic life) (the end of
.

just another lucky genius.

caught up on creativity and
relying on short stories
to live my own tales no taller
than a rat's tail

on a chinese boy so young so
awkward, trailing behind him
the symbolic value of tradition when
tradition is now non-tradition.

both hands make desk space
and trying harder than her smile
trying lesser than the seasons are
wild, where the wild things leave

to be captured by man and minds:
labels disguised by poets and
songwriters writing pop commentary by
making avril lavigne famous.

I play the past to pay the future
of a career or a failure: don't need to know
more than having had a say
in the present.

there are only so many poems,
and too many poets.
The next week could be bleak
and beautiful, or just

bleak. I could stop suddenly and so could
he start temporarily. The lines:
text, eyes and skirts; could become:
rhymes, cocaine, and strikes.

Be taken away, it could, by
myself from my days. So steal
a heart (have one), take a bill,
rape a body, save a small piece

of my poetry.