she is perfectly halved:
she is pouring black paint into the mouths
of strange boys, her body all light
under the strobe lights,
her neck cut into diamond
pieces by the sex moans made
by singers too punk to be human.
And she is reading at the window ledge her
feet curled under a skirt
cut with white eyelets,
the aspen trees making wavy
shadows on her ankles, her hair falling
just over her eyes as she breathes
in and turns the page:
the ancients are robbing graves, making love
and western civilization
and she is sitting, reading, waiting
letting her beasts out
in small pieces
letting the animalism be art so it does not
consume so it can transcend.
the last pavilion 