I forgot how to do this, I suppose,
Live without aesthetica; pastel
Drips into the quivers of alcoholed livers
And everything thins down to rims –
The lips of a wine-glass, or two –
Coming and going in that same
Pretty fashion.

A thread for my waist, though none
To stitch thighs; rose-ridden cheeks
That fluster, flame, as some child,
Somewhere, does the same; though
She is as willing as the cold-culled lambs
And their limpid pleas. They're grated
Through a throat, slit by the knife

Balanced on my skull, piercing
Into the brain, transforming dull
Anatomies into pastel- cacophonies,
This need to look, to be, to feel,
As towers fall and elders whither
(Chalk on a board, curled as a feather
In large, gaping furrows).

The need to look, to be, to feel
The hands of strangers and to mold
Their sweated scent in a strangle-hold.
My mind snaps to renewals with
The same vigour as an anorexic
Forces down her laxatives
To look, to be, to feel

The fresh skin of a fresh beau,
With his Adonis eyes and Adonis  smiles
And personality putrid as my
Purpled Agamemnon. Let me kill you
To indulge a renewal of neo-pastel-,
A slick aesthetica of women, men and children
All wanting to be something beautiful,

The head of a freshly-bloomed calla
With stalks dripped in nectar, with
Pollen gold as ichor and petals searching
Tongues. Though tumours spread to
Brains, to lungs, and empty bodies
Tuck themselves into fitted coffins,
The calla grows, grows,
Forgetting it's timely death.

It'll snap stalk's neck, leave
That beauty pointless.
All we once had, our youth,
Our looks, our touches,
Lost to worldly grudges;
Alas, now I'm entertaining
This pastel- aesthetica
And I can't see how youth
Could ever fade and die.