Spouting sacrificial purity
computer generated images, self-sacrificial protagonist.
“Romance?! Holes in it!”
The fountains! Spouting forth,
When I was eighteen , she spit on my tongue and told me how
A womb was replaced with lizards and fish and birds smashing theirselves into windows
And they cloned them,
Stocked them in any Tesco
Stolen from the woman had a mole on her shoulder
couldn’t dance enough
sneezing and coughing
Brings the back of her wrist to her nose to wipe wet yellow
Flecks of congealed,
And eye waters only once–
Bothered by the furs she slept in
The animal hides she wears,
The skins, nose drip lipstick
Dipstick of lip licks
Mascara trail incinerated
–Fabulosity always comes at some slippery congested price.
But she knows, look at her walking at you,
Clip clip heels (impressive dancer)
Don’t you think she fucking knows?
Clop clop heels (skyrocket landed on blood red moon)
“The blood surely smells of a human!” Margret exclaimed.
Traffic jam eyes.
-A crowd of silhouetted strangers enter-
Tighter than a young coconut,
She drains a thin cigarette, and thinks of the city
She thinks of her family–She thinks of shoplifted flesh.
A family of rocks and of rubbish under the bridge
A family, a unity
a family of evaporated eternality,
A family of a lover who disappeared before the morning,
The family, secret pulsing,
And secret publish to secret oneself,
To get her.
Families forever and ever.
And then there was the emotional climax of her life- a piece seen through opera glass from the very back of the tip top balcony, obscured by standing men
waiting to pounce
a party where everyone wears traffic light colors, hers orange but shifting into green, the men observing with practiced perusal.
-Attentive self forced suitors-
She doesn’t know her color or her family’s color.
Oh how she would have avoided the situation if she only had _______!
If We were in her shoes then _________!
-Wooden comb through already picturesque hair-
Look at her,
–oman is, well….
Just look at the woman…
(supervixen, criminalized and victimized)
now look at us,
Victims of middle class complacency
Only the pretense of private deliberation amongst a group of predetermined individuals.
Don’t you think we know?