She wears a wet blue dress
and if you undress her
she is not vulnerable or
violated. She is a curved
and proud body;
fertile.
He is molded. He is ceramic mannequins turning sick
against the sea. Noon splits pavement and silicon swallows
in a frenzied gulp.
She is airless, something to know and fear.
When clouds steal our stars, she calls to the moon, carrying all of her love and loyalty back to shore,
while he steals her pearls
in the dark.
There is a book that you do
not know. Hard bound.
Gummy.
It was a long trip.
I took a machete to its ink soaked
dress, paddled through
its mysterious
sea of
bad clams. But he wrote it.
He with his ego gala hidden
underneath his racy
beard. The claps,
the bouquets of fraud that
come calling
when a new page is written,
sealed.
The rules are boundless, without
architecture or
makeup.
There would have been a beefy,
apple pie house
but
a pig’s pen
stamped itself onto Arch’s A-E.
From the start….
crippled pages held compact in
iron arms.
My stove top is a scalding
temper; overflowing with
ferocious
boiled steam.
My vision is clouded but
I can still see
egotism dripping out of
his over-sized pores.
Someone gave him the body of
a man to hide in. When we
first kissed, his disguise was concrete, at least.
Now, I can see how heaviness
glazes over him, excreting from
inside out.
He is just a pig, with a
fat, round face and
short,
nothing legs.
He does not know that I know.
But he will.
He will know when stove top steam
becomes serene,
after
I thicken the repulsive cream of
his cowardice,
his fear,
his pretentious stench
and pour
it over his puffed-up
self-admiration, and melt
away his disguise.
The top of the stairs is a lonely
place to
sit
buttoned up
blotted out
a
human splotch spying
on a beautiful
dance
her name is dusty
a cryptogram
enticing
men of solution
to
descend
she extends a maze with her hand
he reaches
to
her
one touch
a crushing warmth
he
enters a
twisted, bending, twirling
riddle
at the bottom of the stairs
from the bottom
of a
casual heart
where dusk sways
in
out
entangling him into her
crafty dance
Man of Steel installs himself two feet
from me
at the bar,
resting his rusted joints.
The years have been hard on his
Steel bones.
He has a wife who is not made
of metal;
she is the ambiance of
a fresh bloom
or
a spring afternoon
and poofs her hair in the morning.
He wears a charm around his neck,
a talisman,
because a man of
gird cannot
move on his own –
steel is heavy!
A potion of spirits
must surely add to the corrosion in
his joints but it seems
to soften his supportive structure.
All the people,
all the people,
all the people want to know him.
A man buys him another drink;
the bartender leans
over the counter
to reveal her
gourmet mammals.
All shriek and snort around in
merriment and mirth.
Oh, what a great invention by
The Man of Steel! He almost sucked me
in to his illusion, but then I
saw his bandaged elbow dribble
when he bent the glass
to his cheek.
Men of Steel can do many things
but Men of Steel
don’t leak!
Step 1.
Press the blade against metal ablaze –
a razor as sharp as
the educated man; with wit and vainglory,
ready to shred your worth into
the palm of his hand.
Step 2.
Use the discriminating blade to
carve out expression; to cut out
surface, scowl and shape.
The eyes MUST be extracted – this is the most
treasured part of the face. A face cannot be
successfully peeled off if the
eyes remain
intact.
Step 3.
No need for apprehension or moderation!
Grip the skin from the top of the face
and pull! Peel it away!
Step 4.
A mask will be needed at this time.
Replace the original layer of expression, surface,
scowl and shape with
the artificial layers of rubber, plastic and paint.
Step 5.
Recovery time is required.
It is not realizable to become acquainted
with a new face immediately. Take
some time to learn how
to mold to it.
Step 6.
Dispose of the old face. Burn it, throw it out, eat it,
feed it to the dog….it does not matter how, just get rid of it.
The sooner the old one is forgotten,
the quicker the new one
will begin to
feel real.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 