Première Fois
Consume and hoard this
femme phantasm, she's miles away
shuffling along these tracks.
While you sit there desensitized, somnolent and
unaware of these stabbing backs.
Until the aurora you sit and stare
awashed in the seizure screen that is white,
traversing in a flicker across your eyes.
That pale, spiked girl that used to dance across your bed
is now sitting in the witching hour folding inward instead.
Your emerald green eyes that cracked and bled under the snow
have turned hazel now,
lost their intoxicating day glow.
Maybe it's because your apparition has disappeared,
or perhaps it was the white screen and hazel eyes that she feared.
Heroin Chic
Don't you want to be a waif?
Skinny thin purging shell
Bopping around from man to man
Kicking the street lights' glow across
the city, all a part of your plan.
Stretching your ribs around
swaying in the winter breeze.
Slopping all over those thighs
and skimming those hot spots
with exceptional smiling ease.
Don't you want to be a waif?
Bony fingers wrapping around
those cervical vertebrae
Knock kneed ligaments reverberate
To the pulmonary artery, now separate
And tear your pulsing lips away.
Wouldn't it be great to be a waif?
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