Skinned then sold
What nice fur that you wear, what nice scent that you share! But do you know where, that hare that you spare, was battered and scared, and skinned without care? Or maybe you wear, some other soft ware? But what hair do you bare? A blood covered mare? or downtrodden bear? . (Open your eyes, your ignorant slut.) . Skinned then sold, left dead with dirt and leaves. With less love...
A hospice is a home, where the cemetery grows from the sedimentary stone stripped bare and quite old, Struck thick and quick until the blood starts to flow, until all that is known is nothing. . But harvest we may, from dusk until dawn, like something you read when you were but young. Still quiet you lay, asleep and awake. Buried deep and alone amongst the sedimentary lake.
Says the brother to the mother that is crying! “Don’t!” Says the father to the brother that is trying! “Stop!” Says the mother to the father that is lying! “Rape!” Says the girl to the mirror. A reflection of a sister too dead and gone to save.
Hollowed out trees illuminate thee. Far more brightly than swallowed up bees. Far more tightly than borrowed night flees, From a dog that’s dieing slowly. Yet still- We, indulge readily in the busy bee, bath quickly among the pestering flees, looking for something that might jump out at we, but nothing is there but an itch and a sting.
There's nothing simple about-
Silicone fields of valor and dust. Synthetic moments with someone you trust. And the car just won’t start, and your down on your luck. Until ready you are, on lust you combust. And stop for a moment, for stopping you must. Wishing for something as simple as- valor and dust. From silicone fields of Cowards and Young.
Face me like you once stood tall, cowering over the dead dolls. Talk like you once spoke loud, hallowed and trite. But still, inches turn into feet, and feet into eternity. Forgetting whether its nobler to fall, or remain dead, alive. I choose height.
I feel like I wouldn't like me if I met me
John Nico: Birth and Death
mirrorspeak: Some selections from a book of poetry dedicated to everything John Nico has ever done. Birth Open womb, John appears. Bloody placenta, Birth. Death Oncoming train, John appears. Bloody placenta, Death. Wedding Black tie, John appears. White dress, There’s the bride. First Sexual Encounter Open legs, John appears. She says, “ow,” It is over.
Hearts will break
and men will fall. But children will wake, and lovers will mend.
Never have I ever felt this way before.
TO THE BEST ANITA IN THE WORLD! da da da da da americcaaa