you are the you i want with hipster lips,
the type with snakes in her bones and
crystalline between all the pinks of her tongue,
the type with all the right secrets in
the crooks of her pockets and neck,
the type with the golden weights
creeping up the sides of her thighs
there's something about injustice that makes me want.
there's something about
the type of bitter sex on the radio tunes stuck
in all the right parts of her dilated corneas,
the type with short eyes and far ears and
a liberal face, filled with all the best rat-hands
and poor words that makes us bold in all the right places.
and i know there's something about the sweet smell
of democracy stuck under the swearing parts of her tongue,
something about all the confections of carnival eyes
that provoke anarchy and makes us spin.
there's something about the dystrophy in her muscles
that allows all the right tyrants in her hipster lips.
and the deviation is so enticing, it makes us sick.
it makes us sick with the freedom frozen to our hips.