The witching moon’s eye
opened inside my brain,
shivered in the cold,
dark,
breeze
that flit through my ears,
forging deep into my swollen head,
the eye blinked and shook the dust
off her glossy wings.
Now awake,
I cannot wriggle free
from the visions,
or escape the skulls
lining the sidewalks,
howling for their bodies
that no one seemed
to crave to find.
The golden locks girl
applies her make-up
in the taunting mirror,
paints her face on
to look like all the others
that are lifted up before her
as the examples to be acceptable pretty,
slips neatly into
size zero jeans,
still hating herself for
what she perceives as being fat.
Halter top beauty queens,
finding faults and flaws
in every looking glass
propped up in front of her
and behind,
because this sadistic torture society
wants to teach you
that you always lack,
you are never enough just to be you,
so you will buy more products
to fill the aching void,
as if material could ever quell the lonely.
Silly girl could never be worthy of love and light
until the souls been
sucked out by the consumer system:
plastic dead doll Barbie:
the epitome of the perfected teased tight woman,
strangled in the American dream-
a child’s toy that
will gladly and with great apology
for any inconvenience to the master,
fit itself into the plastic coffined box,
keep its mouth tapped shut,
staple holes where
the eyes of the goddess used to be.
I saw the women around me
chugging diet pills like breath mints,
washing them down with tequila shots,
no lunch or dinner thanks,
laughing at rape jokes
so as not to upset the status quo,
hissing venom at each other,
tearing other women down
to boost their glamour shots
and perceived righteous ratings
for the likes of the porno-minded men
who really just wanted
women who looked like little girls,
for us to beg to be bruised
and broken into tiny pieces
that could be hanged on the mantelpiece
of power lust, greed, and patriarchy.
Fuck the hell hounded media,
the scoffs at any fragment of individuality,
demonizing cures for anxiety and cancer,
heaven forbid a sense of self-worth,
idolizing violence,
rape and pillage tactics,
concrete aggressive erections,
faked orgasms to boost pathetic egos,
submissive whispers of women
so as to not disrupt male dominance.
Instead we must enact our luscious,
loud erotic beings,
tearing down the cannibal structures
of wall street,
screeching lusty odes
to awaken our
fellow artists and empaths,
gentle sisters and brothers alike,
marching hand entwined with hand,
to cast out our sick oppressors.
Our time is now,
to writhe open our throbbing pulses
and rise
ghosts from their walking graves,
vampires from their tainted mausoleums,
witches curving and swaying upward
from their burned ashes,
lovers and prophets
thrusting forward,
shouting,
demanding,
the fall of the
capital consumption empire.
Just breathe and know
that you are electric elegance
wrapped up in an angel,
you don’t need their chemical produce
and liquored fantasy bullshit.
You are loverly and exquisite
just as you are.
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