My love is like a dead, dead rose.
Whose skin is changed to textured lands,
worn by wind and sand.

Whose edges are singed with umber burned,
and touched by rich siena.
Whose veins are whitened with time.

Whose petals are pressed in hallowed memory,
pressed between the pages of all our eternities,
made meaning by echo'd remember'd rhymes.

This, these, those and so selected,
the fair fertility of first blush turned,
all other flowers of the field rejected,
and this, ripened silk remains,
I cast into the wind, and scatter,
missing all, missing not, missing nothing.

A garden of the past is watered by salt tears,
of all the lost hopes for splendid years.

Good-bye, und tchüss, beijos and ciao,
from out of the past and towards the now.

You Dumb Cunt

You Dumb Cunt.

Don't you know your hem is wrong, and that fabric is garish? Don't you know that round toes are so 2002? Can't you see that top is trashy and hangs all over like some refugee from some bad 80's movie? And that handbag... soooo don't get me started.

You Dumb Cunt.

It wasn't Satre that wrote Sinfonie Pastorale, it was Gide, and the original symphony was so not written by Mozart. And haven't you heard of Bouchard, or Tiepolo?

You Dumb Cunt.

That Chinese restaurant is terrible, and vindaloo is from India. What's with this thing you have for bad Italian wines?

You Dumb Cunt.

Couldn't you just open Architectural Digest once? Don't you know those sex tips from Cosmo are so laaaaame?

You Dumb Cunt.

You can't kid me, I know you'd never hot kiss another girl, let alone put on a show. And your thighs, that you flaunt before the world, show you have trouble taking any position but missionary. And don't tell me that cute little prop pillow has any mileage on it.

Oh my god.

Journey? Fabio? Achy Breaky Heart?

You Dumb Cunt.

Rudolph Guiliani is a Republican. Bill Richardson is a Democrat. And no, Saddam didn't have WMD. And Jefferson didn't write the Gettysburg address, while we are on the subject.

Roll. My. Eyes.

Iraq isn't in Africa. Nepal is in Asia. Ming came before Qing.

What is with you?

No one goes to Paris in the summer who wants to find food that's worth eating, and I know you've never skied the alps. The sand on that beach on Oahu is just, all, wrong.

You. Dumb. Cunt.

Alright, you have him. He can't dance and watches too much football anyway.

Mistress Pain enters the House of Pleasure,
and all the stars align.
She is ghostly white of face,
and deepest black of skin.
She is of every age and every nation,
for all the sensations in all the kingdoms,
are each and once the same.

Mistress Pain takes her pleasure,
and the coils of it wrap the legs in agony,
and rip the senses from their place.
Wrought of bone that breaks the body,
that is gate way to new life.

Do not snear at her coming,
every baby born must pass
through rapt deformation of the very skull,
tearing and torn from mother's hips,
whose screaming cries, come from the darkest reach of torment,
into the cries of joy of the wheel turned again.