Weird to be the object of desire

Upon Eros' pedestal

(And aren't they torn, shredded and made into plastic in the end?)

A weird sound comes a ringing- sending a chill

And the dirty words that are transcribed

A nostalgia for the Iron Age and the Scarlett Letter

And for Luther to write laws/rules in the wall

A joy to break them.

And it's easy and easy going

A breeze

And the trees exude ennui into the atmosphere

A rain of "who gives a crap"

And thrills seem boyish

A thing of the bourgeois or the past.

I am him, she, me and them.

And she doesn't know tact.