Nicer Words Than Cunt

Slovenia.

It is off our grid.
Melted whipped cream,
a sweet like the syrup
that also runs across
burnt pancake batter.

It is not Mexico.

Nonetheless,
despite your urge
to steal the pink
and red Starbursts
from the bag of classics…

Both are off the grid.

Watches shall melt
onto barren sand,
dry and weeping
as veins usually do
behind upturned cheeks.

But you are chipped paint.

A cat in shades,
rubbing your nose
along the surface
of molting feathers,
that hefty, screaming hen.

Porcelain greedily salvaged.

The beautiful girl
standing onstage
before dozens, on dozens
of bystanders bludgeoned
by ever hungry irises.

Frida Kahlo.

Tracing self-portraits
to stress her strained love
like the hen who pecked
at synthetic guacamole
in a poorly decoupaged bowl.

Emily Dickinson.

Reciting verses and twirling,
spinning, and tapping
those buckled feet
assembled by those
whose skill defies that goddamn hen.

Showtime’s purring thief.

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4 thoughts on “Nicer Words Than Cunt

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