she thought who am i
there are so many of me
am i not veils and masks
even to myself
like a locked box
am i not peopled
with miscreant brooding hordes
of shadow selves
whispering gods and demons
taking space up within
like a coffin attic bedroom
to be rented out
for some wayward spectral family

oh children of the night
arguing like
black quilled throwing porcupines
players of dismal warbled music
that sounds like nails scratching floor boards
in the cold dread dead of night
at Holiday Hells Inn

see me she thought
am i not
an icon of responsibility
bright light
sweet and good
engraving angels on silver
making all sacred in the marvelous calm

wouldn't hurt a fly
oh no
me oh my
showered and smelling like
Chanel
she the feminist
her favorite words

"thats disgusting
and no"

until her fingers sneak down her pants
feeling like a flowery beautiful woman
who weeps to be naked
raked over desires hot coals
and forced to worship
big cocked men
to be engorged voluptuously  
like a stuffed butter ball turkey
until her eyes roll back
like white moons shuttering

where gratitude is met
with bay *** and ***** tongues
a celebration of thanksgiving
and thanks is really given
with a star performance
leg show
lubricated for the baking oven
garnished with pineapple
dripping
tipping head over heels
at dizzying heights
hanging from a swinging chandelier
bejeweled
upside down girl
doing butter **** splits
to be scraped off walls and ceilings
like whipping cream whipped
and subsumed in the perfect power and glory
of
NO MIND