In the
all-hell,
busted wreck
of spring, she's such
a mess,
she's
such tough art,
she's like—
is this
the end
or is this
the start?
But it's like—to us, the earth
is
some sagging
and bulbous
and fleshy
old lady
being pretty
outrageous,
scantily dressed,
all in our faces
and out-there
in public
in a way we don't like;
a little too real,
a little
raw for our taste,
a little
too confident
and honest
with herself
and everyone else
about
how
beautiful shit
and
actual,
literal shit—
never used
to be
separate.
We don't want to hear it,
but
right about now,
she must be thinking:
fuck it, if I cannot
get rid
of this privilege,
if I cannot give
all of this
away—then
I may
as well
use it.