She's got a quick wit
and she writes poems about the bullshit
of the world. Light hearted
raps about rape and molestations
from the perspective
of a girl who's never left her mansion
in the Hollywood Hills. I bought her book
and read it over my thirty-minute coffee break.
Gimmicks to stomach the nostalgic time pieces
of illustrious actresses who think they know
the world. Who think that they've -at some point in their lives-
reached out and kissed bony fingers or dug their hands into the
cold earth. Birth words like an unfit mother. Suckle them
to breasts tattooed and pierced too hard in youth. Put her
near your train station and shut her up with pens and pencils.
Too quiet- how can you be a writer -too- quiet in the shadows.
I joke about it with Ian, while we improve the words to the
theme song on her cancelled television show. Whatever! It must
really blow to be her. Too beautiful. Too amazing. Too talented
to waste her life in glamour and existential whimsicality.
She's dating that weird looking boy -who's cheeks are too puffy to be real-
and she paints his portrait in her new book of poems
that I bought on sale for the holiday. Cheap thrills to chill me and my
none-fat-latte to the bone.
She's got a quick wit but her words are still bullshit.