**The Resin-Hit Queen**

they call me [on the streets]
“the Resin-Hit Queen”
if you know what i mean.//
some may think me obscene,
a grimy girl living sloppily,
an impulsive child-of-impracticality.//
I smoke
the shit
of marijuana leftovers,
eating from an analogous toilet bowl
of filth [that would shock my mother]
from my never-cleaned-before “tobacco” pipe, a coat
of gunk, stuck under my nails like a horizon,
black lungs, a disgusting vision of funk;
I am just a disjunctive failure
against society and anarchist punks.//

I smoke the shit of skunks, high enough
to float; I’m obscure as a fur hung on the wall of Expectation,
black&white, striped [down the middle]
with the consolation
prize of lies and resurrection and riddles.
I’m just a nothin’ – a stoned weather of motion,
like wind or ocean,
sweeping climaxes of emotion.//So, here I am:
The Resin-Hit Queen herself;
there’s no think you could have thought
that I won’t sink to tell,
a confession, a misdirection of mess,
Perpetually caught in the symmetry of pot,
you will see the world as I am Not.//
I watch, I see hidden intricacies
within all the people walking by,
I see the magic of death
I See the cosmos behind my eyes:
I fly into the woes, the depths
of starry grids
and ribboned souls, eternal glow, I know.
I see the People and smoke them in a bowl.//

The Resin-Hit Queen sees magic,
and all the un-humanly beings near-by like static;
they sing to me in white-noise whispers,
barely-even the smoke of a burnt-out wick.//
all-the-Universe’s voice, it is not my choice,
my other-worldly friends take
to where time ends and the winter tide begins;
there is where my spirit is lifted to the days
of Beauty incarnate-ly
placing desperate kisses upon my face.//

The Resin-Hit Queen
rarely blushes on her cheeks, except for the flirtations
born from supernovas
and toilet-flushes.: resin bowls
of Lost Touches thrown up
in public restrooms cos you got too drunk
trying to forget what should be forgotten.//
A soul-less soulmate’s despair
drying the air like cotton [mouth].
Only this rancid breath could confess
that my cheeks only redden for the one
I must do with-out.
And so, The Resin-Hit Queen cums
only for No One, sigh-ful orgasmic pouting crowds
It is no matter,
The Queen only blushes for impossible touches,
and not much of contrary or rather.//

The Great Resin-Head,
Queen of Dirty Bed and
“what never should have been said.”
I speak through the whispers in leaves – the romance of trees
carelessly with the wind. I say those unsay-ables,
that bubble at the cusp of waterfalls
and the rising
sun at 5 in the morning.//
Resin-Hit Queen always falls like Autumn
for the thrill
of trying to stand on two legs that plunge
into the inevitable cold of fate;
curl, curl, hurl into a black hole, or to a nebula, away,

I only love for the rain of mo[u]rning
sorrow, for the silent kisses borrowed [in secret] – I love
aimlessly for the thrill of tomorrow, loyal to
possibilities dreamed [without years of sleep];
I’d kill
just to hear [know and believe]
that even for one moment
you loved me – I’ll love you until
every place in space has lost its thrill
and then I’ll spill out like a leak
away, away, to some other reality;
until then [or never]
the Queen waits, with resin and poetry:
smoking on Fate.//

The Royal Resin-Head declares the delight
of a quiet cemetery.
I like to stroll through grassy hallways of the buried [the children,
the married]
wishing [but not blue] that I could be there, too.//
I feel the Truth
at night by the tide, eroded mountains to sand:
one day I’ll be 2 trillion grains
just the same as the cliff on which I stand.
When the ghosts visit my room,
and the creatures-of-space come to bloom me, they come
to me – I See and know [wordlessly]
that it is only my delusion, a stew
of poorly-assorted and half-chewed veggies
that Truth bows to kiss on its feet:
this is MY reality.//

This is me: The Resin-Hit Queen,
King of obscene, horny for streams that gush into
my magnificent abnormality.
To do lowly human things [like taking a shit in a hole or smoking shit
in a bowl],
I place my open palms together at my core
as though I were praying for a bit
of shame to be born.
They say I am a Resourceful Royal of Non-Reality,
and the Duke of Shit-Stains left by weed.
So, I say, [I decree!] let it be! Hail the dirty Resin-Queen!
The obscene Ruler of fantasy, a
writer of stars called poetry. Smoke a bowl of grime,
create All of Time with me; come get high, fly away, with
the Almighty Resin Queen.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s