She's planting out her window box
Young shoots are showing through
She thinks about the Springtime
And the garden she once knew

There were primroses and daffodils
Sweet violets white and blue
She thinks about her husband
And when their love was new

Buds and blooms open up
They scent and colour Summer long
She thinks about those happy days
When they were young and strong

Sunset's falling sooner now
Petals drop, the show is done
She gathers up her Winter shawl
Prepares for what’s to come

you cannot twist
the bones
in my protruding spine
to get me to dance
anymore

you cannot turn me
on
or off
with your ***** hands
anymore

and leave me on the floor
when you are finished
when you get bored
anymore

I am not your toy
anymore

A whisper of a notion
A whim ready to go
An anti-plan put in motion
A seed ready to sow
Relinquishing to a passing fancy
Do what ever it please
So long as it's not too chancy
A whim on the breeze

she is hurt, hurt by the words they speaks
it wipe away the dimples of her cheeks

she is bleeding pain inside her veins
crushing all the bliss she contains

they left her in a state of trauma
by their sinful karma

they alter her sweet memories into her foe
which were sometimes used to glow

her skin seems like velvet
but internally its full of wounds and bruise
so she merge herself with the eternal nature
became tired from their unkind abuse.

Bottled, bound in a brume blue-green,
a mist of Listerine again descends.
And slick, with what’s like shower’s
sweat, there's wipes of writing
on the wall. One thought, on
an endless loop of overcast,
warm marks on rippled sobbing glass:
o             u             t.

Seated, seeping. The mute little girl
fallen down the town well.  
We are half-aware of  the consequence
of these dreams of outside air. Clarity.
It kills me, but I suspect that now
a good deal of this vial’s moisture is mine.  

Chewing cautionary label gum,
(Do Not Swallow!)
We churn the potential
over and over in our mouth--
it taunts a minty tingle.
A curved black mark.
A chasm shadowed.
A welling up of a desire to gulp.

Desire for just one breath, one vision past
this germicidal upturned glass.
To live unlost, unwet, unmasked
a lifetime halled with gorgeous mirrors,
mirrors free from fog.

She serves, serves as. Her body-is-home-is-nation.
She does not dwell, she is dwelling.
She keeps the lights on. She fluffs the pillows.
With child, eternal. She is so very...blessed.

She is the pilot light and the pile of ash.
Savior, safegaurd, scapegoat.
She is flambéed, micro-waved,
she is pressure cooked in social sweat,
and then told that she looks “radiant.”

Idolized, pasteurized, tranquilized,
she is bottled, sealed and brought
beaming to your doorstep each morning
for a reasonable monthly fee.

Her hearth fuels all creation, destruction,
and consumption followed by decaf coffee
and polite chatter in the living room.
She is so excited to welcome you into her...home.

She is incontinent. Incontinuous.
A swollen, slacken gesture towards a self.  
She is wet clay laid again on wheel,
awaiting to welcome the coming
divine, un-declinable gift from god.

A fist to the gut, from beneath.

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