shitter

poems...


'tis not her fault when they call her different
she'd relish the fact that she isn't
one of the girls who'd say they were "in"
she's just cool but a little bit insane.


Her stained finernails hidden in nail polish black
her mouth could be foul but doesn't hold them back
All she needs is her records of Davis and Coltrane.
Not the songs of the boring and mundane.

She wear her hair long and unkempt
she's got eyes unsure what it meant
sad or angry
melancholy

She was too cool to care about fashion.
She'd start with mozart over a large cup of coffee black.
Day's she'd be fashionably sensitive
Some days she'd be silent and her mind subdued

She'd hate the smell in her hair
Everytime the smoke would fill the air
In her quiet pad you'd get to hear silence and
the sound of dear Lou and all the machine violence

I barely get to see her
and those forlorn eyes
the endless musical critiques and the bitter coffee
and the smell of cigarrettes in her hair