She was not homicidal, she whose temples were rubbed
Violence was in her nature and yours. Maybe some Aztec. Some worship the sun
Maybe conceived on Mexican soil with a gun
Her parents became decidedly pacifist in the wake of all the bloodsport they boasted, as documented in the ledgers. Nobody read the ledgers. Pacifist was an unconditionally accepted façade
She wanted to live, made that choice early on
This was well-documented. On the cloud
The virtual copy spoke volumes
Real loud
Probably around four or five years
Suicide was dystonic to her and distasteful
She was clear as her favorite drink: one part lemon, one part tonic
She held it to the light like a chemist
To prevent its being corrupted, she drank it quickly
She was hard to figure
Was her finger on the pulse?
Or was it a trigger?
She excited all the men, and half the women
And one third of the royal family
A high figure
Indeed
Strange, how the only one (unseen) in all whom exist
who shakes up their rocks with a twist of her wrist
recovers her balance despite leaning - en list
now give us.
give us. now
give us a kiss
When all her luck seemed away from her
our loveless child of gen eXxers
true marinated in grunge
wore cycling reflectors
She drew to her temples
(like the strike of a match)
a guardian to protect her
Who held her down in the chair
where she cursed and she howled
caressing the pulse of her dome
where calm was endowed
The healing was practiced
not random
she could give a damn
about facebook and fandom
Damn! our girl cried
young girl, leaving youth
massaged all the way
-- past gloss and glass
and glitz and glamour --
all the way to the truth
and thereby enamored
The thoughts that once clamored
and crowdsurfed her brow
excised at the temples
the fingertips ploughed
The flying cuts flew
unlocking the locks
all the cuts
from her temples
right down to her socks
A wave of great and invigorate feeling
this young girl, leaving youth
-once damning found expression-
self-resolved as they say
fresh love welled up
self-propelled
by the way -- fin
