We have been trained to think about what is beautiful, and
Many of our women absolutely require the visits of moths to fertilize them:
An interesting fallout of weary heads turning
And tired hearts leaping.
Pointed in the wrong direction,
Unable to retrace their steps,
These women, born at a very young age,
Will, inevitably,
After laughing at the shallow follies in others,
Look up at the gaps of sunlight,
Dreaming of men more than anything.
Others will fall in love with the war,
Girls gone rogue, waiting to die in
Lonely paradise, till God make men
of some other metal than earth.
As of yet, worldly desire is the only thing
Which lays its eggs in the navels of these animals when first born—
Carrying them from boyhood into manhood, as they struggle,
Dumb, eating sticks and rocks and mud.
There is a sort of horror in the natural world—
in this struggle for existence.
Rudimentary and aborted organs, et cetera,
Acid dreams, lucid dreams, natural curls,
It’s negative attention at best, it’s that
Tight dress that makes you a whore.
A possessed witch in a cold storm,
Just outside of Grand Central,
the Behavioral Ecology of Parasites
—Deluxe Edition—
Tucked beneath her armpit; she was just
Trying to make a perfect circle.
Maybe it was all about ascension,
Adaptation. Maybe beauty was a trophy.
Or maybe the wicked truth was that
Pink feather coats and jumbo jewelry were
Man-made mirages.
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