Contemplating

epicene-writings:

Well, actually,
i dont think it was a pretty day
for her, or a pretty weather
altogether.

;

The soiled sky and cement waves
met only torn cloth, stained
with wine, sweat, mucus, maybe
vomit. I know
what i’m talking about! and I’m saying
Those rocks aren’t pretty.
Covered in dead fishes (still slimy, or carcasses already), dried-up
algae, and seagull poop
– sticky, gross, and, well,
hard to climb. It made
her nails go black
before time.
It wasn’t – at any rate –
a pretty day.

;

Not that there was no sun;
It wasn’t cold. It wasn’t hot, either,
when she stripped the wind that    
quickly reformed behind her body
– that pile of dirty laundry.
Really, there was nothing left
and there was nothing where
the air meets water
already.

;

Well: actually,
she didn’t feel it happening
she just fell
and you know how sea is
when you fall
from that high.

;

Torn
Cloth, a
broken hairpin,
that wasn’t even
made of gold. That’s about it.

;

I’m telling you:
it wasn’t a pretty death
it wasnt a pretty day
it wasnt a pretty sea
it wasnt a pretty
it wasn’t

;
pretty
pretty
pretty
pretty
pretty…