July 7, 2003


  • The Beautiful People bear no scars. 
    The Beautiful People no not whom they are.
    Their bellybuttons serve not as a symbol of origin
    but as symmetrically-arranged decorative accessories.
    Everything for them is to paint, everything is to glow.
    Nothing, by their reckoning, is gained by pain,
    and loss should never show.
    I knew a BP once
    but she got lost in my mind
    as soon as I heard the chimes
    of the ice cream truck coming down the street.
    And there was another BP once
    who claimed to know me:
    she called me ‘meat’.
    But that’s all right. That’s ok:
    I was an alien loin of Martian beef
    and she was Morgana le Fay.


    I once heard a cry, I swear I did:
    “You bled with Wallace, now bleed with me.”
    Yes, I bleed.  But until bled out
    will flash my scars,
    as unBeautiful as I may be,
    with wondrous, unique ferocity.

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