The nice girl who doesn’t swear.

I’m a nice girl who doesn’t swear.
So crack my head open
And pour the contents
Onto a frying pan,
Hear the squawk and sizzle
Of protein cooking with the past.
Throw the empty shell in the garbage,
And stir the browning contents,
Bet you thought a nice girl like me
Knows no bad words, no cuss words.
You’d be right.
Expletives are a strange kind of honest,
And I like my world glazed with deceit.
So I store my words in a dank, dripping cellar:
Tight.
Airless.
Hot, like a predator’s breath.
My words aren’t coarse, they are smooth,
Like poisoned wine, a bit fruity at times.
Cursing is too well adjusted;
My words foam, like rabid dogs
Enunciations flapping in the air like jowls.
My words aren’t in bad taste either
They are however likelier to dissolve the tongue.
Bet you’d bet a face like this could know no violence,
And that woodland creatures hop in and out of my dreams,
That my world is lit by leprechaun rainbow power
Because I am so very nice, and so very good.
Lets go with that then,
Wearing a wide-eyed, wide grin,
And talk lovely things about the nice girl,
The nice girl who doesn’t swear.

Bored Today.

Take the peeler,

And begin with your forearm,

You’ll be tempted to cry out. Don’t.

As the peels of bloody skin roll up and out,

Think of how ordinary pain is.

 

And remember,

Blood is blood inside the veins,

Within the body it counts,

Outside, it loses all meaning,

Just drops of red on a marble floor.

 

Crack. crack. crack.

My bones break one by one,

But that’s okay,

I was bored today.

 

Are you bored tonight?

Is your heartbeat quite right?

Lub-dub-lub-dub-lub-dub,

Listen to it a while.

 

Don’t drop the peeler,

Keep going even when it’s a mess,

It’s a lovely night after all,

And later, I promise, you’ll get to rest.

Calling The Cat Back.

Let’s set the AC at a temperature that freezes my soul. To preserve it from the canker spreading across my organs like pus-oozing sores. What is this pus made of, you ask? Nothing. It is the gagging vomit that heaves up nothing while twisting the stomach inside out.

Turn green, turn green, red of my fucking life, for once turn green.

Everyone wants a piece of control but there is none left to steal.

The larder runs dry. From the cobwebs lining its shelves I sew a dress and then, as an afterthought, cut it up into ribbons. These ribbons I leave in the scorching sun so they turn to dust. The greedy wind takes this dust away to a land of no consequence. Then I start all over again.

Thank God for Mondays!

Did I chase peace out the door like a stray cat? It doesn’t come around anymore. I keep a bowl of milk on the window sill each day, but still no cat, and all I get is spoilt milk.