My Dolls Aren't For Hunting
Some people might not like being called
unmistakably unstable, but I don't mind.
Because that's the way I roll
cracked eyeballs out of broken doll head holes and hell,
the broken pieces still have brains to fill
with fury and onward activity no matter how
many times they're knocked down.
Because that's the way I roll,
unable to be trapped into further oblivion.
I use gum wrappers to cover ripped out teeth
and a threesome of crooked fingers.
I neglected to take shots of the two little girls I gave
my amputated fingers to. I'm not looking for hand outs,
but don't peel off my clothes and shove your hands in
unless you want to feel the snap of my doll shaped body gripping trap.
Forced Beauty
Forced to open
her legs to the prodding limb
of another prodding limb
of the intrepid future.
The recalcitrant king of damp
pathways
ventures her demure
interior and she
consents as it is
the only attention
she has received all day
and it fits
with some prodding,
the opening that looks
back to solitude with
remorse,
with mystery.
