a rose by any other,
hands so gentile
crusted with diamond specks
and smells of peacock extract;
vanilla; the laughter of a newborn.
a fucking flower rising against the shadow
colossus of empire, of state, of mor ons.
you can see his smirk from the backside
of a dollar bill, he has pasted his
over the wet cement of history.
a rose, a daffodil, a fluke
of postered dreams.
he is pride, he is black on the inside
and irons on the out,
snide remarques on short jews
and parking insects, bleaks
at the sky and wishes it would sunrise
out into eternity
--isn't this lovely mary-k
—no not really.
silence and laughter,
his concept of the world feting
two opposing constructs
glancing at a sharpied on
and hair flowing like horses mane,
riding his shiny red bike
fingers the cab
ragman goes ouch on the brakes!
lapels shimmer like dead presidents
whom he fakes earnest to bury.
now racing down the stairs
bike all fleet and ghosting
down a drain, a red traffic
light, sent sepia, gone sea green.
streets by the numbers
cant recall his mothers,
just a shimmy, miles of coat
comb out, flushed to perfection,
a tilt of head, burrowing cool
into a readily equipped reflection.
i guess the acne he spreads over
civilisation will fade into oblivion,
not before the prig cunt
knifes it over toast,
makes us watch him eat it.