One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star. -Freidrich Nietzsche
Forty Six
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I itch for summer’s blinding sun I pine to hide in leaves to shroud myself deep in snow drifts buried deep from my thieves instead I’m deftly placed between the tulips and the breeze spring thus demands an audience with all its certainty
first a bleed seeping scarlet scratched in public shrouded with the night sour stomach and stooped shoulders then a seed small simple sown in darkness springing into the sun surprising swollen eyes and sleepy soles
you embossed carbuncles playing God when the part’s already taken all you do is grunt primordially and impersonate palpable people God’s understudies, you are not you parasitic nincompoops like vampires, you have no reflection in windows, in mirrors, in lakes all you do is suck amniotic fluid through a plastic straw so I peed on you right on your front lawn I sat down moved my panties and shorts to the side and relieved myself yellow tears soaking into your pallid skin my own little fuck you to the sanctimonious kangaroo court
an infant, ripening sun is rising yolky, yellow, yummy bright as a baby's gummy grin lionhearted like a four year old she peek-a-boos over the horizon beaming, bewitching, blazing strutting around in glittery sassypants tickling the day awake with smiles embracing the warm air and cool earth with trembling arms this angers the established suns the dim and brittle suns the cavalier suns high on brightness the fictional suns going to church the huffy and narrow suns so the established suns shoot down the infant, ripening sun they pull back on their bows aim and let their arrows fly piercing the infant, ripening sun she flops to the damp ground sunny side down