Shaking the fur
off the holes in my skin,
microscopic, little dens
for every fox that comes my way.
They release,
instantly,
and I stand in the room,
bare and naked and bleeding and screaming
for the whole ******* world to
hear and hurt and hug and help and
love
me.
I'm crying and laughing and singing and dreaming
for the whole ******* school to
stop and see and sting and string
me
up
into the jewelry
wrapping their pretty,
little necks.
I am
inexpensive jewelry
to give to your
finest French *****.
Read me like
one of your nudey books,
I'm just a spreadshotted eagling on the
bareskin rug,
bearbottomed with the brutish blues
of the bruises and the bites.
And maybe I
want to hide,
to run and whisper myself
into the secret,
hidden spots behind every
shadowy curtain--
but when you're up and out
and over and through
and wrapped around their evil,
little eyes,
there's nowhere to go.
You're trapped in
every word they say,
the kind,
the cruel;
you're trapped like a rat
stuck inside a cat
stuck inside a dog
which was eaten by
a North Korean man last Kim Jong-il day.
You know,
they call that day
the
Day of the Shining Star--
and maybe the man
plastered on every poster,
draped carelessly on the street signs
and erotically fixating a nation
didn't want to be the Star, either;
maybe he never wanted to
be the constant, single thought
on each of their hateful,
dreadful little minds,
dredged into the
swamps and mires
of their moist
and
sweaty
dreams.
Maybe,
he, too,
didn't want to be the
*****,
drunken,
distasteful
STAR
of their hate.