There’s this girl.
She’s too good for anyone. She’s too good for you, she’s too good for me, and she’s too good for the rest of them.
She’s worldly, and cultured, and terrifically bewitching, and God loves her and Satan wants to fuck her and Michelangelo wants to sculpt her into a marbled existence that’ll last forever.
She’s dined on crushed skulls, and broken souls with Attila the Hun, talked peace- thought war with Genghis Khan.
She’s prescribed policies of appeasement with Reagan, fucked John F. Kennedy on the roof of a white house under a barren burning-blue-midnight winter sky, and she’s experimented with Marilyn Monroe in a New York slum where paper bags carry 40s, and alleyways are 3am drunken stories.
She’s kicked dust, dented shields, shattered swords, eaten poison tipped arrows, and written blood on the dusted ashes of the fallen in an ancient Rome’s gladiatorial arena. The crowd roared with bloodlust, she howled, “Enough is enough.” Silence echoed, sand buried snakes hissed a loving sort of evil, and the sun beat down something fierce, and bright, and blazing. The crowd was blistering underneath the meaning of the sun’s gaze.
She’s ridden, body surfed tsunamis taller than the teeth of Mordor to wreck, and thrash waves of ruination on hostile lands, that just damn well had it all coming.
Innocents evacuated, of course.
She’s shared a prison cell with Hannibal Lecter, where she talked him vegetarian, and taught him human lives are to be cherished, grown, respected, and not fucking consumed.
She drinks saucy gin martinis from within an infinite, Indian palace painted gold, and lavender, and a harshly shallow blue.
An Indian palace where the ceilings are heaven, and life is sense, and drinking is conversation.
The dialect of car horns that sound as if they’re trumpets, shimmering trumpets, lulls this girl into sleep; Miles Davis is warming up, everyone take their seats.
There’s this girl, she’s too good for anyone.