the judgeful puritan
is contradiction
and yet to be a puritan
is to judge

their glass house falls
when their mirrors turn translucent

Democracy, how much I adore
Though in the modern climate it is but a bore
When men of riches and capitalist pigs
are whisked away to office with the flick of the wrist
Through the help of the disillusioned
Of old, indoctrinated *****

As children
We who wore tights to school
   were taught
to wok in high heels
with a book on our heads


to never wear mascara
on our bottom lashes

                        red lipstick = harlot
            red nails = *****
            wearing jewelry = sinful


                       to be proper
                       to mind our manners


           the three monkeys mantra



                      



So we still
Go downtown in our good clothes            
Wearing high heels carrying a matching bag

We have expensive taste
Reputations to uphold

fast cars
      +
          faster boys
      =
           red lipstick
red nails
bodies bejeweled



We learned
All of that                                      Indoctrination
was nonsense









Oh! The high heels of heartache!
How those cruel shoes constrained us

Moon butcher- weaned on courting flesh from safe
viewing, whistling to draw the blinds over fettered
flocks, all whose beaks are wired. Upon his eyes, a
monastic charm, cuffed by all means toward profane
morality, are his deeds and are his perfect misdoings.
And in the most miserable quarters of the mind,
along sad shrines where these supple thoughts are
stowed and ferried as the cattle he should drive;
Bird killer.

How mad you are– crimp hearted figure, without
lament for tattered homes and frayed hulls of a child's
laughter, pulled from heavy sacks. But all are beaten dogs
on morbid eyes, clubbed all with gentle hands and choked
with deft ideals-malformed. How artful though, that no
pinion primed should go clipped, nor aviaries-bold should
hold them here, but only should their minds be tainted–
Made whole in mechanics-belt driven. Just stay and take
my woeful Ode: Tyranny be your maxim; conformity be
our dying ways.

Dark ways; made so dark only in their leaden glare, that all
should turn and close their eyes for night. Monolithic as
mauled humans, ravished as the bark of black Willows and
pawing tides‒ all an empty obelisk of horrors-makeshift.
Pavlovian; cold soup; torn rags on the dashboard‒ and
for miles upon miles, ravaged quill over sunken hills, the
feathers poured here as ink into my ebbing dreams. Though,
to think yet that all had been warm upon a day, now too
distant and criminal. Too nefarious for notion, to hold
wolves for wool, and kooks for feathers stalked to hiding.