In a rickety, rustic wooden chair
next to a matching table in a matching room,
one pink tentacle
wrapped around the ornate handle of a
tiny white tea cup,
the other suctioned to a page of an
antique volume of vaginal poetry,
I observe myself in a broken mirror.  
My 50 smiling fly eyes are beguiling but villainous,
inebriated but inhumane,
like black pearls of gooified obsidian
bejeweling the chunky strawberry jelly
of my veinous face.  
My beak is small like the wren's.  
My expression is in unison with my thought:
This mirror is very very broken.