Fuck Joan Rivers

As hair bristles in the leather upon her nape
At the sight of flesh spread wide in arcs of disgust  
She envies the tone of skin and muscle shape
Under the silky sheets of plaster faces and glorified pornography  
 
She thinks only in pounds and inches
 
He bleeds for woe within the gray catacomb of his head
Pleading only that beauty could be seen from inside the casting mold of plastic terra cotta clones
As bodies are comprised of cells in varying assorted stained glass window assortments
If only an understanding could be reached as only the moon and the tide could comprehend
 
He tears out his heart, wishing beauty could be seen solely through his eyes
 
She lives vicariously through her whispering skeletal form
Aching, screaming for the day when she's whittled to no more than gut wrapped bone
By knives melded in dead eyes and crass tongue
Picked through by velvet condors enveloped in gilded cloaks  
Her brain deprived of oxygen in a medieval blood letting pinch of an existence  
By leeches she is driven
 
She grates the stainless steel through his loving arms, so fucking smooth
With surgical precision, separating tendon from bone
The itching won't stop
Like ivy, wasted life drips down the surface of her skin  
Drip dropping into puddles, appearing more as oceans  
Almost as if in slow motion
Reaching up for each flood of tepid viscosity to sap up the dust on the floor
Flooding the hardwood in wave after wave of gore
The bleeding won't stop  
Until scars belittle the skin around them in shame for not being gritty enough  
Ugly and imperfect lines separated only by time and date  
Condescending reminders of days more bleak than arctic ice
 
Why can't she see her own beauty?
 
He peels back his skin to release his marrow, cauterizing his wounds in despair
Like a stag split open to provide shelter from the unforgiving cold
If not only to show the vermilion that seeps through all ruptures of flesh
Be it woman or sewer rat
He licks the wounds where others would conspire to fuck them
It matters not what is seen
His perception lies beneath the deceit and conceit of harlequin mannequins  
 
She weeps in the form of cozened indigo
Drawn from the image of beauty portrayed upon the screen  
 
He writhes in distress
Longing to open her eyes  
With the tears of his own
 
Yet she pulls the pavement up towards her at a speed that only gravity can provide
 
He scrapes her off of the unforgiving earth
 
And shards of iradescent mourning rain from his skin