3smothered by the common thrivers,
and beautiful. They call the
ultimate truth "the light",
so I bought her a lightbulb.
Morning still flutters through
her heavily-draped window, regardless.
People have made alterations, but
this is life. "Cars take away from the
effects of nature," says she.
Case stated, she's either asking me to
devour her intellect or
pollute her opinion.
My response is a simple, three-lettered
agreement - The edict I had intended to utter,
I keep to myself:
the prettiest vines climb highway soundwalls,
and dance with grafiti.
The automobile is a concrete means to an abstract end.
Something profane for you to paint,
something wicked for me to write.
She was something naiive, the innocent child,
An pariah to Father Corruption,
raised alone by television-taught
Mother Mary.
Ignorant to the books in her
library galore, and to her own savage senses -
so where is it that her wit is poured?
Her true desires masked by philosophy,
inactive when there is no one trying her chastity,
no tongue lick-whipping clean her innards.
Get her to a demon-spawn five-and-dime,
get her to the gutter dressed in wanton garb
to suffer something taxing -
Poor woman-wastrel, posting complaints
of the evil she harbors and adores,
the negetivity she endures with a smirk:
We choose the building blocks of our character,
we program our reactions, we decorate the rooms
in which we are sentenced to dwell.