Your Wife Will Never Find (Out)

[[Open Door Policy]]

Month: February, 2014

I: “Eliza, no”

[Enter: Eliza, falling from the doors of the breakfront cabinet, bloodied nose, carrying an empty jade vase]

She collided with the carpet an hour ago, has been posing since.  Standing above, I look down:

Serpentine, the woman listens through the floor with a frigid cheek.  Fire, behind her back, cheats upward toward the ceiling, greedy for correct angles.  The air in the room is false humidity; that contained with the Exedra.  Terminating into the seaside liturgical east, the room is designed in the shape of a hexagon.  A dog is watching, its head stuck through a plastic door.  Eliza, reticent feline sipping air through a flexing nostril.

I shaped, with my hands, a mountain of black feathers into that very image.

The image was not a sculpture.                  The sculpture is confidently interrupted when Eliza lays flat.

[Exit: dog’s head]

GREEN JADE: impeccable vessel, hiding an invisible blood sacrifice.

The vase was overturned beside an open skeleton’s hand.  Paw & urn were set atop a rug the shade of borscht in winter.  Jade spit ovular spots beside my wife’s left knee: the one I prayed over by candlelight on the night before our betrothal.  We extinguished the flames to conduct the ritual by smoke.

This is a strange festival, indeed.  Eliza, whimpering, considerably warmer than the cat.  Still erect, I offer a toast of yellow anise liqueur to:

The Old Women of Our Pasts

The Young Ones of a Noisy Future

Eliza spoke, racing the wind to my lips.  I am gasping for air from within adoration:

Eliza: “Bring me a cup of soup, slut.”

Shutters swing closed on the exterior of the house.  We are speaking in near darkness

Eliza: (from near darkness): “I am naming you Rachel.  Come down here to me.  Lie down on this wet carpet, Rachel”

I came twice when she uttered the new name.  Language shifts the image of my Self from erect to arched across her moist kimono lap.  Blushing, I indulge in fistfuls of her hair.  I discern the emergency at hand.  The shutters lean their weight into the walls.

We are together, bare, necks touching, wrapped in nets aboard the red sea buoy, ringing to warn the invasion of harmful men.  Black, the ocean is sewing our new skin together at the hemline of impatience.  Her forehead between my breasts illuminated the white light in our kissing palms.

Her forehead between my breasts

Large pelican stomaching a carp

Basket suspended with a cracked leather belt

Hairless arm

Cartilage like squid caps

Immaculate; swollen and bloated from impact with a careles(s)word

I entered the water while wearing a robe.  I became very cold.  I jumped onto a rock to look for Eliza with a silver retractable telescope.

She was in the form of a mother dungeoness crab, taking shelter under my rock!  Her adorable mouth was spitting green foam onto my foot.  Marble eyes, teetering from opposable stems, rotated upward toward my knees.  I tell my finger,

I: “Reach down to stroke her shell, small finger”

Eliza, clicking a melody for me.  Water pushes a line toward her stilts.  An apple, bitten twice by an afternoon fawn, floats in the center of the mill pond.  My darling below, executing the glissando, throws a dilated glance toward the fruit.  Foam: exponential.  Color, pinkening.  Brilliant lustful crustacean.

My dress slips to the rock, encircling my feet and dampening again.  Disrupting the water three times first, I sacrifice my dehydration and enter the chasm.

The apple: bitten thrice.  Fanning red hair (burdensome), a waitress crawls through the liquid, the corners of her mouth leaking juice.  Her teeth are rotten and the robe has forgotten her form.

The apple is spilling worms into her mouth.  The crab: no longer beneath the rock.

Eliza, aboard the buoy, disappears beyond the point

A wall of smoke from the mile-away fire introduces a Red Tide.  Reddest girl in tide of identical humiliation, lonesome, masticating a polluted fruit.


Candlestick, She.  Oh what a bore I’ve become with all the words.  I’m sorry for words, not meaning.

Narrative He: a whip’s end that I sleep to before beCOMEing

Oh, no more questions, Mary.  Hush now, keep close to your husband’s breast.  He’s made you some bread and oh it’s warm and oh it’s sunken oh its dipped cheek for your gruesome hatred.  He won’t fuck you.  I’m not sorry for him — he is my Lamb and yours.  We need him because he will put us to bed so slowly.

Why not, sister, because I would.  Oh, yes, I would fuck you!  Our pussies are of  similar lust; the same hate (synonym, hatred, lust, pissed-on husband).  He is soft and I am too perhaps we can…I would never.  Swirl those hips for me ah yes I see that your hips are mine, emboldened beyond what I could ever know.  Crack a Budweiser in my reaching locks, I’ll come I promise sweet flower.  You are so beautiful.

Mom and Dad fucked each other and made us, Mary, accidentally.  Mother, I am not sorry for splitting your sex.  You are not either, though you cried when you heard of us.  Mary, we imagined our bodies as theirs, pasted belly-to-belly under a white lace canopy, grinding to the sound of public radio and loosening bowties.  The room, varnished.  It’s true that we gazed into the net as little babies, naked in their bed, cake thighs.  Little we knew then, though while I squirm into you now it’s no mystery.  Don’t understand it, Mary, you’ll ruin it for me too.  Still, baby, still don’t look away from the lattice.

You came to me after an hour of General Hospital (or, you’d captured me masturbating to the television late-night, with my cock out).  And then you took my hand, still slimed with Mom and Dad’s fluids.  You took up me upstairs, Mary.  I was serene;  I remember the way our curls framed your angel face (mine).  So cake.  You laid me in our bunk bed, the sponge painted walls, animated felines chanting around the perimeter between small red hearts.  I took off my panties, yours, which I had borrowed.  You were angry that I had borrowed your panties and made them wet.

The fan was spinning precariously (the one that slung our socks into the wall at night while we laughed and bickered about who won the hockey game).  We laid, screamed, hoping it would fly off and splash our same-brains into the wall.  It was going to throw itself from the root straight into a mocking mirror near the hamster’s rotten cage; Ruth’s companion.  Our four-poster beds, Grandmother and Grandfather’s.  We fucked more than they ever hoped to, baby, fucked ourselves until we were crying and gossiping even more than we were allowed to.

Turn on the fan.  Check on us a lot.  And come early.

Turn on the fan.  Check on us a lot and come early.

Turn on the fan.  Check on us a lot and come early.

Oh god, she.  Baby, don’t you remember I gave you the top bunk because you were ____?  I took the fear we shared, sank it into my deep deep pocket and I protected you! Hexes raped me first; the man in the window ate my legs before yours (mine); burning fire ate my flesh.  I memorized entrances and exits, memorized the stealth of demons who desired the blood of twins: they picked apart my ribs and spit them out, but I promised to exterminate you before the stench reached the top bed. And, baby, I did it, sent you far away.  I was immediately ashamed.

You repaid me with a sweet summer of country drives in the van, a thrown-back chin and a pack of cigarettes a lover had gifted you; cold dips in bottomless wet holes.  What I wouldn’t give to place you in the wire vermin trap father set for opossum in the attic.

You are still a baby and I am your mother who is only that because you are only a face I could love, sweet child.  I’ll build the homestead now, crack my bones waiting for you to come home.  It is not a sacrifice, only a plea for honeysuckle to finally grow in the training bra that I still wear.  (it holds your breasts, still).  I am in the rocking chair smoking a pipe.

I  held tight to the hope that no one would want us, Mary.  Do you want us?  I am disgusted with these words because they mean too much; they are easy for Father to understand.

Small man curved, seaward, collecting salt behind his ears.  Perfect little cub, sunken halfway into the ocean wearing a pair of size 4 rubber chest waders.  The small God.  Rod hung plainly in the delicate paws: Bear, the learned man of honest heritage.


[The world, an insatiable beast, fried his brain with LSD and unrequited love]


He was the oil of a burning lamp – cradled invisibly by the hope of one day burning up; fueling a hungry wick, vaporized cleanly without a drop of blood.  We always hoped for power loss during winter – I kept a lamp bedside, always.


His three girls: holy flame, hungry wick, belated sacrament once pleasure, decayed into a box of frozen Carnival corndogs.


He was begging me to come over.   It was no longer my home, though I was the child still.  childish; my child; brother?  I did not recognize our blood as he screamed to his mother, who was embarrassing a broom on the front porch.  He’d allowed a recliner into the flawless Victorian and I knew he was a dead man.


 I: into the bedroom, spitting where my mother once laid.

Distinctly: scum on the phonograph

Distinctly: my overturned basketball goal in the yard

Distinctly: it was disgusting, the cross dressing son of a bitch

Distinctly: old clubhouse where once I reined King


Holes were yawning in the concrete yard outside.  Bear took a sleeping pill, was resting like a child in the curved bottom of a pit.  I wanted to photograph his skull (I could visualize it draining)

Splendid angel, He, weeping as I dialed the cement truck on the landline.  Beneath the shell, we would find his hollow cast.  The fire above had been extinguished; he was going home.


I am soft, small, never adult, always thinking of the blue sports ball that felt more like a wife than a toy.

The Old Bat said she might marry me: contort my body into the form of a bride and trusted album of poses.  Through veils, I have long loved the idea of her.

The Bat, 94; a broken legged crab, salty, pathetic

Downstairs beneath my crooked nest, two eggs are removed from the black cooler.  One, pocked and brown, the other pure white.  A crippled hand breaks the shells using the handle of a wooden spoon.  Milk, set over a flame, soon to mingle in thimbles of black coffee.  The tuxedoed cat, too large for the chair, is dreaming about the sparrow’s nest.

Me, in bed, pupils dilating.  I am waiting for the scrape of my Incestuous Bride’s chair before descending.

She would like to die for my meal today  – I want to let her – but scream down the steps to it instead.  I am a coward.

The woman is riding my mutilated spine.  She knows I would never buck; was broken well as a child.  We are taking turns hiding each other from the ocean.  Doors are sealed.  We are nearly always drunk, watching a fire in silence.  I laid a circle of stones around the perimeter of her home:

Her stallion, I balance the woman who grips my ribs with her thighs (erupting from a silk kimono).  Pushing the lines together, kissing, completing the jealous orb.

A light grey light in the center of the target signals to a family of deer that we are breathing inside

We have picked some apples for them.

Once, we made a soup the color of my skin.  She posed me, nude, on the stool reserved for impatient cats.  I denied her request to see my pussy;  I did not want the box of a man’s ashes to glimpse it from underneath the Steinway.

BAT: “Be tame, darling.  I know that you are tame”               “Here”

[she hands me a red candlestick to hold.  I am suddenly calm, showing her it]

She had forgotten to finish the soup: a pot casting thick regurgitation onto the flame beneath.

I am humiliated.  An impatient beast, naked, forgetting where I placed my underwear.  Another leak.

BAT: “we will find you another hour tomorrow”

She is assuring me time to write!  I will write about her, the writer who despises my writing.  She collapses into the fire, disappearing completely.  There is no more room at the bird feeder.

The next morning, I cleaned my ears with her hairpin (the silver one she wore seven decades ago at a party while sucking cock in the men’s restroom).  It was rusty, the pin, digging into my canal and piercing a gelled wall of salted wax.  In her private bathroom: that is where I cleaned them.  In the tarnished mirror: that is where I reflected.

She was downstairs clicking, releasing yawning streams of drool onto a duck-shaped coaster.  Me, above, crouched to the floor, sick, hiding from the kiss of mirrors which begged to reveal the cock I never had (Dream Revelations II).

My cap was a hissing orange.

Each daybreak, I sprint through a filigree of white birch, tempting the drawn bows of fully-grown bastards.

They want to derail me.  They would like my horns.        (and who could blame them?)

I am damaged goods.  My season is always the open one.  There are reasons to run.


Narrow Aversion of my hidden brother

Father, created in my own image (my very own image)

A Red Squirrel, asking questions; Red

Scrap of Black Lace from the Bat’s drawers; Black

Tin, electric with my sex

The Lobster I am hypnotizing

Sock, discarded onto a rotten piling in the sea

No more visitors at the gates

The Season is now closed.  A fire, miles away, announcing its own arrival —>

[Enter: Eliza, falling from the doors of the breakfront cabinet, bloodied nose, cradling an empty jade vase]

In the next room, two small girls are seated together on a couch.  Their hair is red.

I forget myself when I look at them.  You [Eliza] would tell me it is ideal for women to forget.  You are trying to forget me; the glass that tipped onto the kitchen table; your own reproduction; the frayed tights, slung over the back of a chair of rotting.

You: Are

Trying to forget a rape

I, too, am trying to forget your rape.  And mine.  And hers.  And my sister’s.  My mother’s

Standing behind you while you piss for me.  Green denim, you exquisite beast!  You, tundra.  You, fully in heat and pissing into the bathtub; lubricating the tiles.

[Eliza bursts through the bathroom door, startling you into spraying piss onto my blouse]

My wife is furious with us, refusing to punish, instead joining you in pulling my skirt hem around my wet ears.  The hem is looped over the limp cartilage.  Materials, hissing, friction, and all that.

I feel warm as your guilty child.

Harshly, my (now 2) wives begin singing.  I cannot see them as they lower me, fleshed in white curtain, bare-breasted into the brown tub

[which is deep and cold][which is full of oh no a burning filth]

But the women are so FLESH.  I am wetting my thighs.  covering them.  glazing the pores.

How is it to sing for your son while he is erecting himself in the bottom of a bucket?

His hand, a questionable smoke, twists onto one of my breasts and moves it firmly to the side.  It kisses the red sky and milks it into the thirsty mouths of my family.  5 In All (Sisters)

The walls of the tub are extending, releasing my body into a narrow cavern.  The cavern becomes a crib: white, pure railings to conceal me, a baby, from my hungry parents.  Wrapped in a red tapestry, I am an exquisite baby.  I remind myself of the grandmother I have not yet seen.  My parents are jealous of my skin; they cope with this by pricking my arms with small needles.  They smile while ruining their product.  Marred surface of feminine causality.

Eliza: [empty scream] — her tear pitches itself forward, through a hollow tube and into my open mouth.

Tear: a message, slimy, passes through my throat, upward, and exits my ear.  It was a yellow tear (rotten)

Becoming wet, too, Eliza and the Pissing Man shout to me in my crib,

Our robes are coming down there!  We adore your form, shaken baby!  Remember that you love us!

Look up, Baby.  Look up, your mother [Eliza] is undressing, lowering down a bag of toys [knives]

The Lowering Begins

[My Mother is standing in the open window of a spire, perhaps 50ft tall and made of black concrete.  Melting, the spire sways in front of a bleeding moon.    The spire would like to be destroyed.  Wind angers Mother, now irate]

Mother: “You were rejected, pathetic child.  Now you are tossed into that crib, looking up into the sun, waiting for me to dismount my husband.  Can your Baby Mind understand what terror you’ve caused us, your Donors?”

The gown is hooked over my ears once more, exposing my fleshy thighs to a sun that wants to rape me.  No more milk to wet my tongue, no more luxury in being small.

Empty.  Steele laughs with a warehouse echo.

No safe woman.

No shame in it: I’m adopting my own wet arm so you cannot have it.

Alone, I curl back softly into the broken neck of my bath; it fills cautiously with thick, forgiving moonlight.

Black birds pour from the window where my Mother once cried.

If. If he.  If he to only.  Only lift his.  Only lift me to the last.  Watch hung, bound wrist, ornately sleeping in my small-child——

If to him a little girl three times the girl three times

He ponders, chin clefted, tilted toward relief, “only one way out”

Sweet man; angel reject at the rear of the classroom.  Soul too broad, suffocating down the center of a pitch black hallway with bare feet stroking the chessboard tiles.

[if if if if if, if, if he cannot then I will.                 MOTHER, PLEASE GO BACK TO BED]

We are alone together, outside on porch bathing in air.  Thick with us, it was wet.  “Time is running out”, we were hoping to God it was.  He would have liked to, one day, become a fractal nestled at the bottom of my flannel chest pocket.  What a perfect mess he would have been then.  When he quivered (always), the man splintered into an earthquake.  In my arms, the man began to shake:

I realize the man is my son.  My child.

The bastard leaks onto my thighs:  I realize I am the man’s son.  His child.

Fans churning us from above, our bones decay significantly, into salt.  White leather, we reform each other into small children.

Our Dream, Destroyed: We are unable to die

He is stalled, alive, salivating, yearning for evaporation.  Bastard, I cannot look away from you!  You’ve contaminated everything (grey cat, grandfather clock, untuned piano, my mother) with your DNA.  For this, you deserve life.  I will preserve you, mother fucker!  I will preserve your rotting flesh; pathetic features of the Lamb, magnified.

He taught me how to cut the grass one Saturday afternoon during summer.  The dog was shitting onto the pecan tree.  My football, harrowing, wretched was leering at us through the rhododendron; we swayed, grabbing hands, staring at the warped bag, remembering grandfather, pickled by the sun.  RIP.  The machine was purring toward us; our small pet.  No one remembers my laughter or his because we were little girls.

An orange sun, he said, would draw him back.  The words fell into us; reconstituted our salty femurs.  Between my feet (beneath my pelvis) sat a dull grey block.  Beneath the block, was colony of black snakes: they saw the future and hissed to us.

The sons bit into my soft arm while I slobbered behind a hopeless window pane.  Each girl in her bedroom, preserved, fortified, and eating the sun alone; they memorize its choreography.  Satisfied voyeurs of its plummeting obscenties, safe within wooden caves

Protected from the glory of men who want to rape them.

Daddy under grey moon paradise:

mesh white cap

pocked cheek, billowing


denim warped in Big-Blue-Truck

sneakers, black, abused, flexed into the cemetery

Me, of questionable origin

wafting bile; thin

swathed in a futile vapor

almond eye, gentle, framed by boyish fingertips

look down, little boy, father came home

[stripped below the waist; bleeding from the indignant rhododendron]

When our eyes locked, a horrible disgust rebounded from the surface of the window, shattering things.  He began to weep; our skulls, 100 feet in distance, were full of mercury.  The barometer forewarned lightning as our toes retrieved air from the open seams of Grandfather’s quilt.  On the other side of the wall, an orange flame.

He built the flame in the image of an orange sun.  I extinguished it without hesitation.

He destroyed our home by emptying the closets into my private bedroom where I kept safe my virginity and 60 stolen coins.


Glass shatters in the next room: Kitchen With White Tin Ceiling

[stumble up the stairs to detail the level of his orange bottle near the sink]

3 Missing

I believe my numbered age was 15, but since I was 45, could not have felt calmer upon entering the kitchen to find my _______ doused in shit, blood, and vegetarian chili.  _________ was fallen to the floor, kneeled in perfect submissive adoration of the mess.  I was never planning to have my portion, as I’d cultivated an eating disorder with the hopes that it might make me desirable to girls.

He was floating above midnight tiles.  Mother’s adored crystal bowl had sacrificed itself for him.  The broken _______, mousy Pert-Plus hair, arched flanneled back, musky, sweet, surveying his art.  Face tilted upward, angelic, glasses sleeping on the end of a nose that whistled.  Looked at me,

“__________ : “_______ ______!”

No words were sacrificed (he was always my perfect lady).  I broke our tryst and mentioned the 3 missing capsules.  Sisters:

Lydia.  Mary.  _____.

He broke his tryst by spilling a mouthful of red blood and chili back onto the chessboard tiles.


ACT II To recognize your Fallen Father

Look at the skin.  Is it blushing, rotten or opaque, swathed in silk?  If geranium (soft pink) curl around a pair of weeping ears, yes it may be him.  If the Allen Edmond shoes are buffed into perfect mirrors, pants have morphed into the crooked legs of your most precious pet, then also yes.  Perfect bow-tie shed and folded into a pocket, a White Flag reaching from the hole, for only a breath.

It most certainly is him if the Victrola spins the tango while he bleeds beneath you.

Seeing that your body is chaotic (see: bipedal & leaky), you must tumble the creature into your paws, lift it upward to the ceiling.  Your muscles are weak because you refuse food and are therefore strong.

Thunder on to your grounded prize; he is waiting for a heroine.  Wrap your forearms in his lily pink silk by bending at the waist.  Hover your knees above the floor; the tile is contaminated.  He contaminated you and the floor with his DNA.

Against your porcelain, rib-thinned chest, the lady will burrow and weep — she will remain otherwise silent.  Leave the waste (which is nuclear, toxic to children) pooling beside the refrigerator (which purrs and is black).  You go up.

You land in a chamber which, brick by brick, is crumbling from the walls.  Above the bed, a lacy canopy extends, small blossoms suspended from the seams.  Blossoms hook to the geranium spindles, still wrapped around his weeping ears.  Let them hoist your gracious mess, raising him, suspended before you.

Purple moon kisses the forehead that once puckered your small-child lips

The body spins and gathers, web encasing the man that was.


Shut the wooden door.  Kiss the dreaming knob.  Finger the hole with your skeleton’s key.  Turn to your mother.  Turn to your sister [they have been waiting behind the bookshelf].

Bow, now.  Deeply with humiliation.

Come over to me, I am on the couch. We’ll watch an episode of The Simpsons, perhaps have some beer.  Laugh about the whole ordeal because we are still very small, very plain, very hungry.

We have forgotten to dress one another.  Why so eager, do you realize that you are peeling me?  Do you know what you are doing?  I cannot watch you understand.

[She is trying to make me a slut again; stealing the cold shirt off of my infant chest]

[She wants me to shut my eyes when men are present]

It is very shameful, the obscenity, the smell of me unclothed unhidden.  The flesh, orange, for I refuse to nourish it.  I nourish my Self by fucking It until I am crying.  Only, I am ugly so Me will not touch Me.  I want to become fat, slick, full of spotted grease.

Her hands are pulling red hairs from my arms.  We are in our white nightgowns, whispering softly beside five candles

Eliza: “turn over to your stomach”

I do it.  My pillow is sandy and smells of medicine, yet I am kissing it firmly; fearfully drinking a liquid from it.  A breeze slips across our breasts  when Eliza snakes her left hands into the hem of my gown [without permission].  She does not know what she is doing; I am a child and do not choke on a word.  Materials are shifting, turning a large metal gear.

[Seconds elapse.  Eliza cannot find my pussy.  She becomes tangled in my gown and pushes me onto the rug]

My teeth are clenching the pillow, carrying it down with me to the black rug.  Because I am biting [desperation] the pillow, I do not smash my nose into the cherry wood.  I am not bleeding or whimpering: the towels are dirty and I am naked into front of my wife.  Certain that I am too thin, she pursues the search further:

an engorged fish, I am on my belly

Wet//Unsewn               Open//Window//Electric

Sickening//Hand           Removal//Of//Left//Arm

Sweaty//Cheek                 Damage//Her//Wrong//Goods//Sure

Fucked//                   a            Rusty//Phallus


Eliza: “wake up and fuck me, slut”   [my stomach is eating the cold tiles when the clock wakes me]

Your entrails are pure gold, baby.  My eyes are open for the first time in 46 years



I joined my sister at the school house: burgundy stone structure with a gray plaque, “The Coltrane School”

We are warm and because we are warm we are holding hands.  We are thinking of a small flower between our palms

She: “Do you want to slide closer to me?   Do you want to be disgusting?”

[vomit a whimper accidentally] two females grab me away from my sister who laughs at my whiplash.  The women are wearing long mustard robes.  They appear identical, though I cannot see clearly through the blinds they slipped over me.  One woman, Cynthia, is itching furiously.  Her companion does not notice me, which means she is a QUEEN.  I reach a nail toward her chin

Shes: “Do you want to be disgusting?”               yes I want to be their son I want to be hated like a son

Yellow-Robed: found out to be a traitor

Double-Braided: spit on as an insignificant brother

A Bare-Foot: your pathetic sustenance


Cythnia bends from thin waist to touch my naked feet.  Embarrassing having dirty toes before a queen, though I’ve always known I would be unworthy.  I did not bind her, for I am gentle.  Gentle is the only word I am able to pronounce.

We are sitting so politely together! Our knees are not misbehaving! A platter of tea cakes are ready to be eaten, yet we do not indulge.

[the Women begin rapping my shins with long wooden spoons.  ouch!]  Handles are splintering with rhythmic distaste.  A dog watches with its jaw itching, head stuck through a plastic door into our chamber.  My skin begins to rot under their harm.  A line of blood, carved first by a penile bulge, reaches my tender ankle when


Now, I am being sent away to my bedroom without supper.  Dogs are not my allies.  They are brothers, greedy beasts.

I am frightened by my bedroom.

A dog is watching me with its head stuck through a plastic door.

My ass is bare, sliding against a silken pillow which has grown fairly warm.  I think the dog finds me disgusting; his drool is making a clear puddle beneath my pussy, duping the Mother into believing that I like being sent away.


Mother: “You regret being beaten, slut”

Mother now asks unanswerable questions, we no longer share our deepest darkest secrets with each other.  She uses her dog for that. [I vomit because I cannot help myself].

Released, I fall through a door, steel, obstinate, unforgiving, into an open classroom.  Teacher is screaming at the children.  We are drooling babies and do not blame our fathers for leaving.

Grace is transporting a Lamb.

Victoria is destroying a hat.                                   Women are humiliated, doing hateful things to their men

Elizabeth is boiling one small fruit

Emily is fucking herself.

Fires are igniting the houses of men who deserve to die painfully.  Should we eat the perfect cakes? I feel you becoming unpolite again.  Please close my bedroom door, oh please, protect me.  

I am drooling, dribbling, incompetent baby.  Messy bitch messy little bitch.

Asphyxiation of the adult spirit.



They want to pick the little child’s flesh-ridden scream.  They want their pups to lap at space gnawed between her legs: a filling oil, coating the hot mouths of my brothers

My brother is a Dog, lost in a severe and dripping gutter

White fences are constructed around my house and it is difficult to watch the massacre next door.  The Government is leaching into my lawn from beneath [they spilled blood across my cabin door while my sister hid inside & wept over a failed attempt at Fatherhood].

Here, baby, take my wings.                                              Where is she?

away is not feat I cannot survive.  I can survive you if only you’ll let me TRY.

Boys are inverting now, next door, behind the curtains; they are the hungry dogs.  My child is being devoured while I watch and bees have stopped their destructive tasks.  I can tell they want me to come over for supper.

Look down no don’t look at me…

Isn’t it disgusting? Filthy, untied, used, pussy drip

All men pass by and step on my feet until the bones crush.  My bones are a fine and soft powder.  Losing stature, I sink into the bloody summer lawn, merging into my own primordial stench.  It is awful Isn’t It Disgusting?

The dogs (brothers, men) have swarmed the pink child but she does not scream as their white knives slice her flesh.  She doesn’t even whimper, the fool.  We are both sinking.  I am crying for her.

Dogs are men who carry my child away from my breast

There is someone laughing.  My eyes are digging spades into the cold grass; the black curtain is wrapped around my child’s skull; the silent child who watches her weeping mother.  Wolves, too, might bleed into our grass.