Stretched across the hotel bed is Axl
Rose with his chin gathered up in clinical
Defiance his arms and legs are
Tangled up in bitterness
And the white sheets which
Still have my skin cells lined into them from
Last night only cover
Half his chest and the other part
Is purely muscle and hard
rock he was so
much crueler in my daydreams
now his lashes half-curve along the silver
plains of an empty laugh I
think his throat has forgotten
the way you can choke
on innocence again
and again
The reflection of my eyes
Croaks nakedly
I have wasted away I am just
a famine
The mirror falls from
Over the rented sinks and carves out
A memory—
A girl about nineteen
Alone in a hotel room much
Like this one
Except the pastel bed is empty and
Only in her head
Are there colors
And empty cities she wants to know
What sex is like she’s
Been listening to too much guitar music
And the louder it gets
In her ears the more
Her soul just swells up
Over her conscious and then she can finally breathe
And touch the little parts of herself if only
She had lived by now or
Done something other than wear
Violet colored sweaters and
Knee-length skirts her
Music only goes on when her mother goes out but now
The hotel room is just silent—both
Of them, only the girl from
Before picks off the lint balls and decides that
Enough is enough
She will go crazy if she has to she’s so
Sick of being a prude and listening
To people who’ve never
Been young and streaked with lush rain like she has If
She doesn’t get rid of the rainforest between her legs
Soon she’ll just
Implode and now—
Look at her, only
Sixteen months later, in the capital city of
Immortality with nothing to
Show for it but
Men’s handprints all over her body
I press her fingers to the
Glass and wonder that the
Mirror is actually still there
Axl Rose is asleep I think how
He could die right now and there
Wouldn’t be any difference as to the
Condition of his soul he’s already
Burned it and
I can’t
Save him and
I told myself this was all just experience—
So I can write poetry about the
Human existence, but my
Words are too self-conscious and they
All know what a liar I am and how darkly I go
Down to the last city streets with
Pink flowers and consider that I
Am in fact
A slut
The girl, again—
She lets Axl roll over without caring
Her hand creaks over the mirror and
She whispers briefly—
Oh Lord,
Why didn’t I listen to my mother?
the last pavilion 