Sunday, 4 November 2012

Bad Wired Female

So do I have to lick

the shit

someone sprayed up the subway wall

then spit out

a pretty French word

no one has used since Sagan?

'Is that actual

or metaphorical shit?' you ask

before I hide inside

my latest dream sequence

and hope for a drop

of short term solution

in my tea

so I'm adequately knocked out

to only attempt a suicide jump

from the edge of my bed.

That comfort cell

killing my voice

with fear, inhibitions

and financial excuses.

Bad wired female

anti-maternal

don't know political

career in weight loss,

my feet resting on a floor safe

until pay off day.

Faithless, I could stand

inside an inverted cross

or slogan

mass produced to fit

so keep it on

and march blank bannered

over a difficult dance floor

in circles,

to impress any new face

before panic speed accusations

of misunderstandings of

the flowery print

on a badge pinned to my skin.

A decoration

looking for a church

to sit down in.

What will they give me,

protein and

a question;

'do you despise me?'

No,

but do you desire me

to say

yes?


 


 

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