The Muse as an Angelheaded Vegan Hipster

A Poem by Phil Roland

She liked it. That's all that matters, I suppose.

Here are her lips
      calling cigarettes "f**s" without irony
      and calling you "f*g" without malice
      and spilling crumbs on the bed
      from her bloodless sandwich
      that she washes down
      with guilt-free milk

Here are her eyes
      bald; lost and fixed
      to the cradle of deficient stars
      that sag from the sky
      like the lopsided smiles
      on the faces of retard children
      Wishing she could go home and away
      and spend her days
      chaining daisies without the innuendo
      with fingers that pick at her head
      and shave windows into the side of her skull
      and lift at the straps of her dress
      to show cupping marks
      that run up and down her back
      like the embrace of sharktopus
      who would have raped her
      had rape been anything other
      than six points in Scrabble

Here are her hands
      and she'll show you love in a handful of non-dairy chocolate chips
      and unbleached sugar