like confetti at New Years’ Eve
sprinkling on me
as rainbow-colored showers
blooming as a garden of flowers
that he didn’t water
he did not bother

He threw them at me
like rice at a wedding couple
ever so supple
and I fried them up in matzo *****
but they knocked me down as rolling pins
he's only practicing

He threw them at me
like a bucket of rain
yellow and stained
soaked me
until my clothes stuck to my skin
heavy and dripping
I held the empty bucket  
of his promises
full of drain holes
making puddles around my toes

that cut my face. The lines
you see aren’t wrinkles. They’re
cracks from the hacks of
the silver blades.

I cry splinters
that poke my face. The holes
you see aren’t pockmarks. They’re
pits from men throwing darts
made from planks. I’ve those men
to thank!

I cry icicles
once was tears. But frozen
hard through the years.

are droplets of brine
strung as beads
hung over the cavity
of my black chest.

The sparkle in my smile
is a palette of metallic red
painted on with a wand
thick as a loaf of bread.

The wave of my arms
is as a pendulum weighted
down and fixed on the hour
living in a cherry tower.

The swing in my hips
is a **** on a vane
that swirls in the direction
of a fickle wind
and swings back again.

The spring in my step
is from a pebble that sits
in my shoes and rolls around
as I move.

My smile is my dressing
coating the surface a creamy
red, spreading over a lettuce
bed. But it all pours from

a bottle. I’m a chopped onion,
protruding as the bunion on my
foot/hacked as a computer by
an adroit crook. The saddest

women smile as if their eyes
were cherries. But inside the rounded
glossy fruit lies a stone. And once all
the flesh is consumed the stone is spitted out
like stream from a whale’s spout.

are dripping on his pate’
with bitterness and a lime
twist. He can hold it up
and fill his glass with grouse

and rash. Go back for seconds
and thirds as he dines on
his adjectives. But he can’t cut
into the gristle of 2007 with

a fork and a knife. He can write
a paper or a book. But he shall not
enter the nook and granny, even as
it’s dripping brandy.

too angry to speak
the tears all dried
nothing’s left to leak

I’m too hurt to move
the scars run deep
nothing’s left to prove
and I’m too weak

growing fungus in my *******
a sight not seen
you made me  itchy and unclean
in the dampness of undress
you left me a mess
red and hot
you stuck as glue
to the azure and crimson hue
a stain that none saw
but I wore
in a pompadour