And she just wanted a little sunshine
Among this obscence malodorous mud.
She just wanted to hide in sun rays
From this dirtiness, from this crud.

And she just wanted to be joyful.
She wanted to laugh but not in hysterics,
That rippling laughter would wink with a smile.
She wanted a gladness, and no mysteries.

She also wanted a lot of snow,
So white, so huge, with snow banks!
But you found nothing better than damage all!
Aren’t you people? There’s nothing sacred!

And she just wanted a little happiness.
You were so stingy, and she would have shared.
She didn’t have grunge for you, she didn’t have meanness…
At the beginning… Look, what you’ve achieved that!  

Look, what you’ve turned the angel into.
She walks without the sun through the mud.
She’s lost, but she isn’t humiliated.
Why have you done all that to her, my God?!

All that she wanted was little sunshine,
A little warmth and simple happiness.
And you thought that it was ****** and silly.
You tore her soul to pieces! You’re merciless!

Torn to shreads, appalled and pained,
She still walks because she’s alive.
And you keep on spill all with mud,
Without seeing her, burn up and deprive.

Under the cover of darkness,
I plucked that rose from its bush.
I spied it two days ago,
even snapped a photo of its lush
Foliage.
I feel guilty now,
But is that because, I stole it stealth
Or is that because it now droops, lifeless?!

There is romance found in ingratiation – chaste doilies suffering implicitly beneath the burden of unclean bowls. Here’s one, illuminated as a pinball machine when you rattle that dung-brown stain about its shrivelled axis. Above its shaky pupil, a cataract of steam squirms about in unalarming routine.

So many nights I adulterated merely for lack of better days were given credence by the gimpy sun, turned away with its blouse undone, and ****** back to the chalkboard. Somewhere along the past few days I must have become bedridden, indentured to prickly sponge baths by that ****** tongue.

How I’d like to stay sedated now – another day of inoculation becoming an alibi for the adhesion of this numbness inducted to the soft-boiled meat of my temples, combing out my shoulder blades, running down my legs.

Stupidly I almost feel a sense of superiority in not learning any faces among the indiscrete convoys of whitish heads popping in now and then, with the subordinate arousal of stiff knuckles, or other things compressed inward by their own come-hither fervor.

“You talk too much, you worry me to death…”

He is gorgeous, eyes like pools of stardust.
He is pretty, in a way that defies human nature.
He is kind, in a way that so few ever are.
He is, he is, he is.