chipped of course
Hollow inside when tapped,
shining with ancient lacquer.
Retro clothes are cool
but so old and obselete
Left to fester and crawl
against the cleanest covering
of decorated buildings;
no sound, it's soft
yet busy and flustered
so that hearts cannot beat.
No room inside flat carcasses
for expansion and breath
The cracks in glass eyes
show bloodshot and bulging
Displaced into the only space left
as one dimension meets another.
They continue to practice vomitting
though nothing emerges
as a 2-fingered emetic prize
Ultimate shabby chic
in putrid, puke-stained rags
and pin-point sharps tottering
on wafer-thin needles
Falling in apathy and saturation,
always ice underfoot.
Toxic, starved and squeezed
into hook, eye and button loop
Touch is forbidden, slicing
ragged skin brings gasping sting
Droplets; bright, fresh and red
on clean, white snowfall
but not much from diminished vessels
it sizzles the ice
like salt on fat, bloated slugs.
Paper bags for paper dolls,
hang on sticks and sharp edges
There is no control with kindred brass
clanging loosely inside corridors and
echoing through unseen corners.
Existence hangs quietly in
yearning, digestive stasis
Bones and shards stained
in old, perfumed lip gloss
Choking and gagging on nothing
as she likens herself in the mirror
to pulling a trigger like they do on the TV
Legs apart, arms strong and straight in front
But she has no strength
No direction, no needs
No life.
~ Charlotte Sometimes (SRWB) aka Leccie 2009
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