Fauxhemian
princess. You sicken me.

Patchwork and hemp
and over-indulgence.

Not nearly as chic as you
always wanted, so you
latch on
cash in
trade up
for hipper contacts.

What once was goofy is now a calculated
strike. Go
bite your wooden spoon and
dance your sari dance.
I'll thank you kindly to
leave
me be.

So I like the Dead and
you like Shellac.
We both know the edge
when we see it.

So I write my soul and
you promote
and host your little shows
you fat fucking fish,

you. Can't see the pond
scum
glass ceiling you aspire

to touch

way up on your tippity toes
way too cool to wear the shoe that would
put you in
reach.

If it fits, they say.

But you won't touch
a Birkenstock

can't look like a dyke when
it's not for attention.

Can you
rationalize the changes made
or tell me it's not deliberate
believe a word you say
more than what I write
or call yourself genuine?

Pay no attention
to the fraud in the
thrift store power suit.

You don't wrestle with
the truth unless it's
sloppy with jello.

Fuck your summer of love
perceptions.
Fuck fauxhemia.

Go get trampled.