"Where have all the flowers gone?"

She plucked.
One, five, twenty,
a-b-c-f-z-x.
flowers, withering
lonely within the street cracks;
and she picked them.
Impressionable things,
though limp on the sidewalk,
with elastic backs that hunched
over infertile soil-
unsatiated, dry, and famished.

Unknown places

She closed the blinds;
couldn't see. Thought about it,
heard stuff like walk talk
sauntering down the loose-leaved aisles.

Read about it, could sense the
brisk lips floating, spitting
kaleidoscopes on the window pane.
Loud, unbearable rainbows.

Twirled around like little girls
weaving yarn on wood
with soft feet, kissing. She
Dreamt about it, long ago.

ideas

-short story or poem about a child's imagination
Background: I was in the public restroom at Fashion Island yesterday and I saw a mom and her son. She was desperately trying to get her son to wash his hands, but he just didn't want to. He would scream and shout and stay away as far as possible from the water, but in the end the mother managed to wash his hands anyway. A child's imagination--why would he be scared of the water? That's what my story (or poem) will be about.

-video about anorexia (or at least avoiding temptation)
The story: A girl walks into her apartment (college girl, most likely) and sets down her keys and her bag. She sits at a desk nearby to do her homework when suddenly she decides to walk to the kitchen and grab a snack from her refrigerator. She walks back to the desk with her food and begins to eat and finishes the snack. She does a little work here and there but ultimately goes back to the fridge and eats something else. This continues several times. In the end, you see her at the desk just looking toward the kitchen, but a trashcan will be nearby showing no evidence of her eating (no thrown wrappers, napkins, etc.). (Or she could throw the trash on the floor but later on you see no trash on the floor.) She is only thinking about eating all of the food, but then goes back to her work.

Tantalus

You've sculpted me:
a clay cynic
made from damp
intangible palms

Dropped onto
the concrete canvas
I felt my shell quake
and granulate

Inside,
nothing

Outside,
powder

Superfluous--dirt on the ground;
I peeped through the cracks still,
and those crying hands glanced back
down at me.

I value my art much more than your
pre-manufactured bullshit
that people attribute to "style".

I'm surprised I'm not entitled to your
creatively cheap enterprises
and Warhol-ic recombinant retail
just yet.

Not my thing.