Tivoli (i lov iT)

In my dreams you work
at a movie theater, an old one,
and I go to see movies by myself,
hoping that you'll be the one
standing in the back of the
theater, while I sit in the last
row and pretend not to notice
that we are alone.

frictrice

My Babydoll used to be a rogue

called herself a gunslinger

called herself Queen Androgyne

she's died dyed dark dead

all lipstuck up and rouge 

pronounced the French way

learned to mock talk walk like a lady

learned to laugh like something's funny

My Babydoll used to be a rake

called herself a skirt-chaser

called herself gentler than a man

her toes bruised black and

she likes it, loves it, will do it again

for the way that it grows her 

gazellian limbs and kneads her 

ass into something fine

My Babydoll the neuromancer

now calls herself the romantic

now calls herself whole, soulmated, full

she's singing slizzer slurring calling
it devotion, fool for fatuous love
mixing up mania and admiration
she taught herself to stand upright
and look her infanta in the eye

My Babydoll wrapped in slacks, slick top hat 

taped her tits to her chest and passed

today she wears a different mask

she smiles with tiny pearls

gloss glided, plucked, primped

bones wrapped in a new soft, plump

knowing her infanta wouldn't sleep 

with my hand-me-down playthings

velvet, powder, silk, cream, lace,

she made herself a brand new face
mortar, plaster, tar, rust, lime

pretty things decay with time

The Wife (Kate Chopin Pastiche)

Alberta having looked not very long into life, had not looked very far. She put out her hands to touch things that pleased her and her lips to kiss them. Her eyes were deep brown wells that were drinking, drinking impressions and treasuring them in her soul. They were mysterious eyes and love looked out of them.

The first person to take Alberta by the hand was her mama, who was not really her mama. Alberta’s mama often collected stray creatures and brought them home to keep her company while her husband was away. When he was gone, the thought of him alone dwelt in her mind, and his name and none other was on her lips.

A picture for your lover

"I'm drawing you a picture," he told me.
I thought it might be a peace offering.
He was no artist. He refused to try to be.
"When can I see it, baby?"
"I don't know. I don't know if I want you to."
But of course he wanted me to.
He wanted me to want to.
And I did.
But it wasn't exactly a picture.
It was really more of a chart, he said. A chart of his mind.
He drew it out with bubbles, arrows, lines.
And I was at the center.
And at the edges were terrible things.
It was labelled "A small portion of negative thoughts related to you;
Or, why I don't have a chemical imbalance."
But it wasn't exactly a chart.
It was really more of an excuse. An excuse for his mood swings.
A justification for grabbing me.
(You needed to get a grip on yourself.)
A justification for not caring when it hurts.
(You've hurt yourself before, so why can't I?)
A justification for putting his hands over my mouth.
(You've used that mouth for things I don't want to think about.)
A justification for pushing me onto his bed.
(You've been in enough beds, it shouldn't be new to you.)
A justification for the line, "I'll let you up when you shut up."
(Your crying too loud. Do you want everyone to hear you?)

A justification for treating me like a whore. 

(You've allowed strangers to see your tits.)

A justification for his sporadic snapping. 

(Your tattoos are a visible reminder that I'm not the only one who's seen them.)

A justification for his lack of affection.

(You make it so hard to love you.)

A justification for his absence of remorse.

(Your past is not my fault.)

Using myself against me, using me as an excuse.
All I can do is try to commit it to memory
Before he tears it up so no one else can see it,
So no one else will believe that it ever existed.
So that he can convince me that it never existed.

singles/ad

Unwilling/inevitable participant in Hegel's master/slave dialectic seeks same.
Join me for candlelit dinner, and after we can head to my place for a bit of emotional blackmail.
We could take long, moonlit strolls together in the park as I regale you with my sexual history, and you pretend not to be revolted.
We could vacation together in Montauk, where you could verbally abuse me, and I could pretend not to notice and then quietly mutilate myself while locked in the hotel bathroom.
We could grow old together, grow bitter toward each other together.
Strong, capable, outspoken (read: bitchy) emotionally unstable female seeks soulmate to spend cold nights with, engaged in fiery hurling of insults (and occasional inanimate objects).
Seeking male or female, preferably with some sort of mental imbalance.
Seeking male or female with self-esteem just low enough not to leave me.
Seeking male or female capable of unfavorably distorting my self-image and persuading me to contemplate homocide and/or suicide.
(Roles flexible.)

thirst

(the way the alcoholic's lover pours his gin on the floor,
only to watch horrified as he laps it up from the puddle at her feet)

all my profound is poured out, licked up, drying,
gone gone, squandered on loving lesser beings, boys
with scratchy skin, hungry eyes, ungrateful grins, boys
burned black by sick sick, sorry attempts to keep warm.
I have no more to give, nothing nothing nothing left.

noir

feelings fermented,
he left me to be
a thin glass bottle
of chilled apathy

control this world

out of the corner of my eye,
there are serial killers/rapists
(possibly a combination)
lurking, tapping on my window
ready to grab snatch or stab
but looking straight ahead
there's nothing but trees
with dead leaves What is it
about the night that makes
a sane person so stupid? Maybe
it's a hologram trick with the
streetlights and the stars to
make us feel just a little bit
luckier to be alive