Ameliorate the Debutante

It's not the route
that leads home but i'll make it my own
it's your softly flowing dress
suffocating my skin that i will sit indian style in
i won't wear panties i'll purposefully prance
over steam grates on the downtown streets
i will not match but can break your heart

it's your four walls
 'permitting' me the courtesy of a room
 to trap myself inside of secret
 is privacy ceases to exist
it's but a pretty dressed up jail
 i do jumping jacks and splits
naked with the windows open in mid day
i dance i smoke i rub myself down till i shake
 all traumatic like and relieved to be living
 blinds drawn up, apart of the world, again
My own box, room, window display, peep show,
if you shop with no money, i'm for you

and go right on laugh
at my vocabulary my poetry my rants
about wild Descartes and fornicating forlorn Foucault
Because what do I know College aint for me

So now this is your dead end job dead end living
i'm dreaming through in mars no now spain new mexico
and then Marvin Gaye's coke-ridden parlor
shift ends and i implode into water vapour
sent from the pure Arctic to flood away
the sinister carbon devils and no you can't
 have my number i'm saving myself for white ice

sure, sir, please, cut my curly brown locks in my sleep
- or rip them out piece by piece while penetrating me
(in more ways than you'd like- you rattle it all, a truest klutz)

did you notice me here? tugging at your sleeve?
asking if you could spare a dime a dream a home?
i will make my own there isnt one map i dont know