she walks like the sun melts from her cunt when she comes,
(and maybe it does) shouting to the skies when it tears her apart:
everybody’s got to know
she’s dying that beautiful death.
she writes like the muses make love to her mind
and perhaps they do,
making agonies of ecstasy by the letter
so her audience dies that beautiful death.
she smiles like the dawn pushes itself
through her teeth when she shouts,
and possibly it does– the colors around me are never as bright
as when her lips brush the sky,
dying that beautiful death
(it’s the lights around her head)
& her eyes like autumn,
and her lines unwinding along the frame of her body
like the fuckin’ sexiest canvas sprang
from her mother’s womb on the labor bed–
don’t you know, she can’t see it
but the whole goddamned universe unwound itself from her little finger
(fuck that big bang shit)!
and she can be modest if she wanna,
but when my turn comes I know who to pay my respects to
at the funeral of hearts (that goddess/murderess!).
all she has to do is write another poem and there I’ll go again,
dying that beautiful death.