Dear Miss Rigby,

The Beatles are frozen underground Like some sort of Prehistoric Cave Drawing, Art Incognito. The Ground is Hard And my Fingernails break. The Clay inbeded in my DNA, Some part of me is Buried Should I attend my own Funeral? Nobody Else seems to be going The Eulogy is short and unsweetened, There are no Tears. It hasn't rained in days, I long for the tropics, Where things make more sense. I long for that girl from long ago who was never anything but beauty personfied. The butterfly on her lower hip flutters and is perhaps my heart. Desire is an impossible suspect, My fingers slide under her yellow underwear Past the Tattoo which dances, Subtly stopping to admire the colors of her wings The Moment is perfect. The Cold outside in perfect contrast To the warmth I feel for her, beneath the Reptilean Skin I crawl looking for this moment Because that is all I can do To pass the time