End of the words . . . . talk to the foot

 

 

 

i am the center of a

one-way conversation

to the god-complex

wielding a scalpel

on my shoulder

　

i reek of profundities yet

speak such profanity

to spite your preconceived

notions that a few fucks,

shits and bitches is

resonant of evidence i

can't drop your thoughts

for a tick

　

(shall i tock)

 

i've discovered the

machinations of my

spartan conundrum

spoilt with brandied sweet-

honey sweat -- whereas

she felt us simply lost

in translation,

 

i found

myself truly lost

but only one thoroughly

selfish could accuse

me of selfishness, hell-

bent on a romance written

in opium-smoked signals

accurst with contentment

in the cursive of conceit

　

i practice the art of sanity

in the face of an ill logic:

I am queen, commoner,

jester and spiritual advisor

for an empire of one

　

a woman of many hats

reclining in a guillotine