Skinny she's so plump and sweet, Hips seducing, bones protruding -- Perfect pretty little girl. Seductress of skin and bones, Breasts inviting a suck and squeeze On the sandy beach of sun-glistened bodies laid out like candy bars, Sweet and full of oozing caramel Just waiting to be eaten and sucked. Skinny says she wants a grab and pull, Opens her creamy thick thighs -- an invitation to feed on her fly-eaten carcass. She strips a piece of meat from her arm, offering him a sacrifice of blood and flesh. Blesses him with communion, Feeds him, fills him, quenches his thirst and hunger. Skinny takes inventory of her gains and losses Diligently reviews her budget for the week, Aware of the necessary charity, Desiring gifts to the world, Ascetically flogging herself, Shredding herself to sell her meat in the fresh market. Skinny little girl notes her excess spending, Though perceived by her buyers as a careful saver of funds. The prodigal youth, they say, How lucky, they praise and laud her in her assiduous attempts to save. Skinny, though, in darkened chambers, hides her promiscuity, Fucking men in sweat-filled rooms, Collecting dollar bills and throwing them at pills and needles To feed her insatiable habit, She falls unconscious under the weight of countless men Chomping into her like rare, bleeding steaks to hard bone. Skinny turns to dust, outspent in money and torn flesh Partied till the end, Enjoying every moment of pleasure, Taking pride in her outward perfection Even until and throughout their distribution of her thigh, leg, and breast, Skinny lives for the thrill, Exists for the luxury, the beauty outside with the dirty inside, Skinny is licked, chewed, savored, Sweet at first, but found to have a bitter aftertaste. Skinny sought the thrill, Lived to a proud death, an inscription of her devout charity and giving to mankind.

My first time, I found myself raped, strapped down on sterilized floors Once stinking of stinking flesh and dried blood of bodies past, Sedated by bitter pink pills, I fell into a foggy coma, Unaware of the sleep that would tame me to satiate their desires for plump suppleness, All smiles and complacent contentment. After that night, I curled up in my own warm -- then loose -- womb, Cuddling and rocking myself in recovery. I searched for my innocence again, having been forged into a woman before I was even a girl. I lost my sleep and forfeited my dreams to the thoughts of men seeking a sweet and untouched girlhood Dressing me in red satin, Fucking me on a floor of red petals and cheap cologne. Drugging me with milk and sour injections. When I returned from my stupor, I saw the faces of my perpetrators viewing my pearl broken from its oyster, They walked away in disappointment, Having had their fill, satisfied with their victory. My first time was a cloudy memory, Obscured by anonymous, impersonal encounters. We never spoke again of those times, Never made eye contact in the open streets, Sometimes I can't believe this happening, Convincing myself that it was a mere dream -- no reality. My first time was a rape, And now I seek escape from its memory. My first time made me a one-night, perfumed, cheap whore, Sold for the satisfaction of faceless men. It shall never be spoken of again -- The innocence never existed, and yet was sought and exploited.

e.e. cummings

punctuation go to hell
i don’t need you
like ee cummings
i love the flow of life
i don’t need separation or forced transition
i go on like a flowing river
that takes me down its windy path

my illness is a paradox
it brings you through a whirlwind of love and hate
it takes you down paths you’d never discover
isolated
yet connected to everything

i listen to the songs that fit my transient mood
i am a flashing flicker in the sky
i am a feather in the wind
i move with the moon with the tides with the effervescent waves at night
i dig my feet under warm white sand
as i sit on a beach of solitude gazing at the milky way
utter silence
it calms this mind that tortures and pulsates with a bruised and aching heart
and yet
i’m afraid the words will disappear from the page
will fade from black to grey to utter nothingness

i am an artist
i am brilliant beautiful strange
seductive and alluring
sweet and juicy like the pomegranate that transforms
your carefree summer into a winter of pensiveness
i feel what you dont feel
i know what you dont know
i sense the secrets in the sky
and interpret their labyrinth of significance and prophecy

echos

I am playing in a hall that echos with unheard ivory notes that glisten and shine blue and cold like icy bells
“No hay banda”,
Its all in our heads
Its what we want to hear but isn’t really there,
No hay.

jaded

Have we become so jaded that we can no longer love?
Can we go on living our lives as if every day were just another page in a postmodern novel
no meaning, just another black and white.
another meaningless story,
another snapshot with artistic beauty but no real focus.

Where is the meaning on this blue and lonely orb?
when does God return?
Is he just dead like the rest of us,
Or does he sit idle, bored tapping his finger against grey rainclouds,
wondering when we’ll return to a garden,
when we’ll dip our soft bodies into cool pools
naked and happy like giggling white babies
Will they lose their meaning like us
like our love
Will they become jaded too and lose all interest in the world,
Will they merely float away?

What happened to our innocence?
did we come into this world only to die,
to lose our wonder our fascination with mountains seas and deserts,
can we no longer hear God’s voice?
did we forget Jerusalem, the heaven of our hearts
where muezzins churchbells verses in hebrew resonate from high towers?
Have we forgtotten the olive trees of Palestine,
the cedars of Lebanon,
have we lost track of jesus’ footsteps through ancient lands
the prayers of the hopeful and of those crying in the dark assured that
one day,
God would answer their calls?

Does he listen to our prayers
or does he merely fade away run away like you?
Cowardly, disappointed and impatient.

The words are all the same,
we know each others thoughts
we ignore them cuz we think we’re isolated,
and yet we’re not-
We’re all islands on the same ocean,
Meaningful and meaningless,
All at the same time.

azaleas

take me back south where the azaleas bloom bold
where dogwoods paint a gentle blue sky with white soft grace
i long for its warmth
i long for the sun
(not this faded-grey ball that bounces bored in a hazy sky
i long for loving rose-cheeked women with round, soft bodies that embrace me,
their thick dumplings simmering in cracked tiled kitchens
they’re so unlike these men in black suits
hiding under spiny umbrellas,
seeking refuge in their 9-5’s,
resting their puffy eyes in cushioned office chairs,
disguising their hearts-
those shadowed caves of solitude
see the trees’ gentle yet stark silhouettes against a bleak washington sky
they are no longer beautiful to me

and what the hell..here's another one

Also should cite a segment of Sufjan Stevens' song "Come on, Feel the Illinoise!" which has haunted me for a very long time- it rings so true for me.

Even with the heart of terror and the superstitious wearer
I am riding all alone
I am writing all alone
Even in my best condition, counting all the superstition
I am riding all alone
I am running all alone

And we laughed at the beatitudes of a thousand lines
We were asked at the attitudes
They reminded us of death
Even with the rest belated, everything is antiquated
Are you writing from the heart?
Are you writing from the heart?
Even in his heart the Devil has to know the water level
Are you writing from the heart? Are you writing from the heart?