Qiviut - Your impenetrable dark end

Your impenetrable dark end
          -- a tribute to the unmelodic
  
  
   When does another lose
her composure
-- is it her own first tears
for herself?
  
   Brag-waddling, the rigidity of her
permanent infantile condition
-- this way her jealousy
puts her against everyone?
  
   With no point,
does her self-tear exclude love
-- in that life dripping
with judgment, what cost?
  
   She knows not the other, though
she watches her own T.V.
-- the same tired drudge
her scantbrain creased.
  
   By the weight of how trite
she expresses culture
-- she shrinks leaving her motives
bare; this same tinny shriek,
  
for neither mate nor beau
has stepped ever near
-- turning lust bitter,
if not dead over time.
  
   The same peeled blare
-- metallic, flimsy --
she swears and proudly
brands herself a bother.
  
   When does another abandon
all personal modesty
-- is it the first time she hears
herself
  
modelling the absurdity of her
incurable juvenile disease
-- this way she proclaims
she loves
  
to get screwed in her sass. Hole
that she's made, ever deeper
-- she won't stop digging:
without wisdom, what's lost?
  
   She knows not. To blather though
she inserts her own I.V.
-- the same old drugtalk
her few brain cells ceased
  
by the weight of how
keeping up, she conforms
-- non-conformist rebel like all others
in her sweller-than-any-other clique.
  
   In any imaginary bball or rock
star door her legs will spread
-- making love litter
blowing through her empty lot.
  
   Her same squeal square
-- thin, weak, unnourishing --
she shares unwanted; and, loudly
grand, she is no sister.

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