The Romantics Face the Music and Get Their Asses Kicked
(or Lord Byron Fucked Bob Vila Too)

Hey, fat boy,
Pour me some absinthe,
Share an opiate for my cramps,
Write a memoriam to Diana;
She is mine, I reclaim her.
I am a daughter of the tide.
We are one,
The creators.

Do you know what it's like
To bleed from your belly?
To be young and smelly?
The rancid blood lingers here.
I wail in a corner,
I can't conceal
What's wrenching me.

Take your stomach,
Stretch it sideways,
Pull it oblong through a
Swiss cheese grater.
Then maybe we can talk,
Chat about creation.

The moon pushes and pulls
The waters from my shores.
I am Mother Earth,
A volcano,
A bleeder,
I am not a believer.

You construct things,
To feel in control of creation.
But your table has
Created you,
Dominated you,
Controlled you.

And I can break it
Because I am broken.
This sacrifice is a token of
My power.
It is a shower of lava,
Bow down to its forces.
Destruction in
Creation in

Dead babies drain from my soul,
And you, you stand on the threshold
With building blocks.
Snap 'em together,
Like the Lego's that they are,
And I'll feed you my tar,
Take you to war,
Sew up my own scar.

You, Boy, do not create.
You assimilate what already was.
Dip your pen into the well of
A woman's blood.
Only then may you speak
Of the ultimate loss.
Only then can you write
Of the pain of creation.

Mary Shelley,
She created.
Dr. Frankenstein,
He did not.
He stitched together
Some arbitrary Lincoln Logs.
Add lightening,
Stir vigorously.

I do not lose blood,
I use blood.
I choose blood and pain-
Their beautiful stench,
Their chaotic fears-
You named these as lunar.
I embrace them.
I ooze life.
You, boy, merely assemble it.