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Untitled

She’s become wound up lately.
There’s a string stretched taut,
tied off on one end to a spindle
and the other to her chicken-neck.

The observers whispered to each other,
watching bemusedly as she trudged along.
A spinning wheel reeled in endless thread,
with melodramatic creaking and croaking to boot
is tugging at her sore throat.
They stare and point awkwardly,
though she seems not to notice.
All these feeble beings are just images –
hallucinations, improbabilities.
She’s the only one really there.

The vestiges of thread are dwindling down drearily,
and it’s anyone’s guess what could happen next.
A few fractured skulls aren’t out of the question.
Crack-a-lacking with a club and striking down
those she deems unworthy.

But when she finally felt it –
the end –
she did exactly the opposite.

She broke.

The insidious thoughts were dismissed.
She was harmless, they all said,
and we gave her a hard time,
just because of a few funny looks
and leftover baggage tied to a collar.
It could happen to anyone.

We’re monsters, aren’t we?

So one of the fellows had the gumption to go up,
apologize for his atrocious acts.
Demanding fellatio, and so such.
General whoring around.
She was comatose, of course,
didn’t hear a word.

Another, her mother this time,
apologized for not loving her enough.
For putting little sis above and beyond,
and ignoring her previously.
She was comatose, of course,
didn’t hear a word.

Then was the priest, anointing her forehead,
with oils and saying a few last words of blessing.
He said she was welcome to drop by the cathedral
if she’d had enough of this vegetative state.
She was comatose, of course,
didn’t hear a word.

The last person was me.
I shuffled in quietly, saying that I was sorry
that I’d made a lot of promises
I couldn’t keep after all.
How I wish I hadn’t taken her
for granted. And how I wish I hadn’t
thrown an anchor overboard
without checking to see what was tied to it.

She immediately leapt up,
strangled me to death,
and went about her merry ways.

Thank God I’m not in a coma.



dreamboat annie, bitch

the last time i heard the phrase "crack-a-lacking"
I was hanging naked from the ceiling, one leg bound to my spine,
the other swinging free in a melodramatic, fractured dance.
but anyway, the insidious tale of how i became hanging is one i care not
to weave upon this vestigial spindle, i won't offer to fellate you so freely.
let it be said, however, that with great gumption
i did awake amongst this fractured fields and realised
i should probably get crack-a-lacking.



Dunes

Sex put an insidious damper on the evening.
You were before, the mischief of the affair,
pulling out all the characters;

The spindly bombshell,
Complete with upturned nose,
resplendent in spangled heels.
The 50's movie producer
Affecting a Hollwood accent:
“I love your moxy kid, you got gumption!'

Only you can get away with the little digs,
Bordering casual rascism,
You later asked me 'What's crack-a-lacking?'
What does that even mean?

You came down soon after,
Spread eagled on the dunes,
After a failed hallucination.
And splattered pride.
Cawing. Fractured.
A melodramatic back lash to rejection,
the vestigial contraception on the sand.
Perhaps it was all our fault,
Crashing into your love cathedral:

'What ho!?
Fellatio!'

It seemed funny at the time.