And I am a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And on the clock we have two minutes to speak.
What a tragic circumstance.
The lonely desperate crowd
Burns up for “love.”
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air
Wait, where are you going?
Oh, hello Round Eight.
And I am a smiling woman
For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
That is to say: um, hi,
Eyes are up here.
What do I do?
I’m a riddle in nine syllables,
I’m a means, a stage, a cow in calf.
Your emerald eyes remind me,
When I was ten, a lime-green anesthetist
Fed me banana-gas through a frog mask.
This world is fleshed with idiot men,
Common as the strut of a slug.
But you appear, vivid at my side,
Love fiery enough to prove flesh real.
The body is a Roman thing.
What of your mind? Your dreams?
Your heat within, the flame,
incandescence of passion,
which—wait, what is a Brony?
Now curse the clock-strike!
Oh down the drain with all of it!
Barren, love is barren.
No, I don’t think they give refunds, why?
Wow, Round Nine already?
And I am a smiling woman…
