They tried to put their fingers in
Gagging reflex, salty skin
To tickle and persuade the back of his throat
Still flaking, red raw
From last time.

Those words had come out all wrong
Now they must go back
To be redigested, re-gurgled
Prettified, and spat
With vigour
Back into the waiting, ticking hands
To be judged, assessed and criticised

They must not be too harsh, not too subtle
Their intonation must be perfect,
Collaborative, kind.
Working like an oiled robot
With the muscles of the throat, the neck, the jaw.

Teeth: poised and ready
For this is perhaps your last time to impress
To leave tiny marks in vowels and sibilants
To escape the fingers and the vomit

And instead, smile in mock confidence
At your suitors’ hands eagerly awaiting
Their fresh meat.

I did not mean to do her harm
Her orange shine, her rusty charm
Was certainly undeserving.
And yet
It was I
And I alone,
That forgot the important things.
The kiss goodnight, the clean water.

And so it was.
She ran over my smallest finger first.
What use is there in naming,
Pinky, Mr. Ring Fing,
When they all end up ground, inseparable
A despicable and bloody marriage.

And all because of a flat battery!
Flat chested, flat footed, flat hearted
The fuel tank flooding and weeping,
Seeping its acrid juices
Into other organs, folding and bubbling like intestines.

Mother, mother
Don’t cry.

Soon they will attend to you,
Your eyes, your mouth
Shall be caressed and bandaged
Praised, for your long-lasting courage, your will
To survive against time
Abusive men and
Me.

Dear little dirt bird
Tell me what you see
Girl writhing blindly
One two three

Dear little blue toe
Tell me what you smell
Books rotting madly
Spore mother cell

Dear little frozen ghost
Tell me what you hear
Skin scratching paper
Vestibule of the ear

Ignite! Ignite! Ignite!

Dirt bird, blue toe, frozen ghost
Take what you sense
And sensibly salute me
Alone in nothingness.

Mercantile and ridiculous
Lowly of the low
O sparkling, laughing needle:
Tickle us! Tickle us!

(They rubbed their wings against the bars
Their bones were de-fortified
De-mortified)
Little mortal eye-catchers, how you

Changed my world.
Sliced and diced
Sluiced and juiced
Eye liquids- melt and bubble!

Seventy Two hours to go
Until darkness, darkness.
Sans moon, sans stars
Starkness, starkness.

Nothing to go by, I have
But one faint scar
(‘Tis but a scratch! A scratch!)
Left upon my left
Palm.

Right upon my write.
I sneer and spit
I cheer and kick

It is the barbed wire, the silver snare
The flesh, the scar, the broken chair
The croak of your larynx
The nicotine lips
The small sips
Of me.

And the end, so near!
You probably smelt it
So that was the end
Our hearts a-melted.

You sat up, you tasted, you spat me out
Just as we went through that roundabout.
And this scratch, but a scratch
Upon my left palm
Was your gift, but a gift
Of your love and your charm.

You love me! You love me!
They all said it was true
I swallowed that love
So.
Goo goo g'joob.

The hat shall not be worn, from this day forth
It lies dormant and subdued
Tattered, elastic teetering on its edge:
Teeth marks around the fringe.

Headwear to restrict, to confine at first,
Had become flaccid and comfortable
So much so that it’s owner became immune to its presence
A second layer of hair, membranes to remember-
Precisely, the effects.

Purpose, intention, audience
And always a deep ‘hum’ sliding down each hair follicle
Trickling lovingly, albeit hideously into the ears.

This hat, this hat
And to think it was herself that bought it in the first place!
Tight-fitting, professional- the perfect mask
To trap the black, the nausea, the upside-down men.

But soon it realized its capabilities transcended such meager thoughts
Instead, it lengthened its ribbons, bright and velvety, serpentine
To coat and cover and choke the eyes.
Arrest! Arrest! Indeed, it was a crime.
But no one noticed, in time, in time.

The hat became one with mind, with body
It could control… things.
Like- the time at which the wearer brushed her teeth,
Or- the specific emotion which one would wear
(Anger, a neatly pressed suit)
Until, the tendrils of straw had grown so fat and confident
That they stretched down over the mouth and nostrils.

The hat(e). The hat(e).

And to this day, one can see the little scratch marks in the fibre
The loose threads
The gnawed heads
Of the ribbon.

The wearer, face pale and unassuming
Can lie back now.

Down, right down
Like wax off a candle
My skin. On fire, as it were-
Flesh of a hue, Burnt Umber
Care of you.

Twas the unintentional intention
The slap on the knee
The cigarette poised between two fingers
The frantic dripping eyes

Sweetheart, I disappoint
This wine with which I anoint
Your forehead, your chest-
Was too warm.
It left shiny scars and heavy breathing, sliding

Down, right down
Things could have (should have?) been so different

She hopped into the saucepan
With the other jigsaw pieces
Masticating the cardboard
Until, until, it ejects out of her mouth as
Moist and mangled as swamp muck

The theatrical comeback, the final embrace
The tears, the begging
The teddy bear crayons and
A pathetic, puny stream of words as weak and inconsistent as yourself
Inflaming her four year old heart.