Less Bone

I sit and cross my legs.
Elbow on knee and my hand rests,
softly under my chin.

I look at my feet.
My toes are painted,
Blush pink.
I feel content.

The weight of my leg is wrong.
Too heavy.
Need less bone, less skin.
My heart rate increases.

I uncross my legs.

Not Welcome in Utopia

A monument,

to Postmodernism.

The future, waves her flags.

A collaboration of power,

by the radical elite,

for the

people.

US.

Planned, in the precision of the

Capital. Shape and form, a symphony of

hope,

a caberet of floorspace,

parading,

light, color and texture.

Marshaling.

The people's smouldering desires.

Champagnes,

raucous laughter

offsets,

the chiseled jaw

of perfection.

Salutes OUR progress.

UTOPIA. OPEN.

historical footnote.

Across 4 tiles.

Handmade, Italian marble tiles.

in the mens

urinal.

someone has

already

scrawled.

QUEERS MUST DIE.

Form floats upon water

She. He. Waves hitting shorelines.

Drifting...

Back out of consciousness,

into tributarys of memory.

A weightless floating,

into oceans of other things.

Thoughts; bouy, bob and break.

Silting...

Mutable harbors of the self.

Building dams of edifice

out of wet clay.

Truths' silent deconstruction?

The white wheeling bird,

Soaring...

In clouds of bright appetite

like a knowing chorus,

sings us, back from this.

the ever flowing water's edge.

She is Crusoe, gazing agnostic waves,

Dreaming...

of more self evident landscapes.

A creedless martyr!

Burning fires for ghost ships,

lost in sea lanes.

He draws horizons in verse lines,

Speaking...

as broken driftwood, in fragments.

Illuminating abstracts by suns decline,

identifying the end of himself

in moments such as these,

Filters

I had breakfast
with David and Victoria.
David said I could
have his Orange juice.

I like David a lot.
He doesnt like me.

It is hot in L.A.
Sometimes I stay in
and go through Vicky's things.
I can't get into them
as she is tiny.

I am bored.

I call Paris (not the city).
We have lunch in
her pink Bentley.
She is my best girlfriend,
and we talk about boys.

They are demonstrating about War.
We are being photographed.
People are dying right now,
and the world is on fire.

She is beautiful and
I am very ugly.
I say, "Paris in your video."
She blushes.

"You are so like me
especially in the bathroom
when you are in those
black knickers
and looking at your perfect
reflection."

She hugs me, and the skin
on her face comes away.
She smiles.
Bones teeth and muscle.
"Are you ok?" I say.
I pick up her face
and she says, 'try it.'
I do.

The electric window falls.
We laugh.
One thousand suns
flash in my eyes.

'Paris!' (not the city).
'Paris here over here!'
I close the window.
I return her face.
We giggle that was such fun.
She drops me off at my
doctor.

He is giving me injections
so my breasts will grow.
He has done nothing with
my penis, which I hate.
He says if I keep it
I can make money in
porn, and get really hot boyfriends.
"As hot as David?"
He says 'sure.'

"Can you give me an injection
so I can save people
who are unhappy?"
Pick them up and take
them to a safe place.
He says 'no that would make
you a superhero.'
But he knows someone in the
hills who talks with
the dead.

I like having so much money.
I pay for cute guys
to come over.
I just lay on the bed
and look at their
bronze bodies and tight asses.
They do what I want.
They twirl, bend over,
fetch me things, get
on all fours, growl,
and let me take pictures,
even kiss my feet.
I let them have my bagel.
Just one thousand dollars.
I think they all fall in love with me.
They keep calling my cell.

There are lots of drugs
I would like to try.
They all look so sexy
in their little white bottles.
Those long black names.
Some are in capitals
but I like the lowercase ones.
I wish Prada made drugs.
How amazing! Or even Gucci,
that would be fabulous.

I would have a designer bloodstream.
I just know my cells would love it.
They would be flawless.
I would cut myself and that is nice.
Under a microscope you can see,
the white cells with Prada written in
the centre.

People go to prison sometmes.
For lots of things.
I like the ones who do terrible crimes.
Its fun to watch and TV does it so well.
People write and say so much
about the awful ones.
They get the best graphics
and really good looking, clever people
interested in them.

I am a boy but really a girl.
I dont know to which prison,
they would send me.
I would get a really expensive lawyer.
It would take years for them to decide
and everyone would talk about me forever.
How great would that be?
So great, so amazing.
I would get more google searches,
than Paris and Vicky,
but they are my friends,
and I am not a bitch.

The supreme court ruled.
The boy is an abnormal growth
and must be removed.
The red bar would run along,
the bottom of huge televisions.
Brad and Angelina would
say something at this
point.
All over the world,
people would send texts
about me.

I would of course have to do terrible things.
I am so lazy though,
and it is so hot.

I watch Vicky get ready,
some of her girlfriends
dont like me.
They are all better looking than me.
I have read more books so screw those
thick whores.

I get angry sometimes.
I dont like being inside out
and people not seeing the real me.
Like you do...