old bucket back

Cling to a bullet

In your battered lung

And think of the mothers sitting at home

With their daughters

& perusing home maker catalogs with

Sexy NO NEVERMIND

Olive green frumpy aprons and shoes

And the children groaning in the kitchen

Oh you’re bitchin’

With your bloodied hands and

Sick on the land

Vile, potent

CIGARETTES

In her clawed fingers

Her breath lingers

In the air-conditioned car

Infecting the pleather with her lazy

Demon spirit

Men who give their life away to battle

Women who give their life away to MEN

Bulbous girth bellies

Stretched skin and veins that represent

The ocean in your soul

Wait, I take it back

That old

Sold

Ghoul of a cliché

It’s actually the blue gravel under the tennis players feet

After a miscarriage

When the blood that was her Helena/Hunter pools

To the center of the court

Leaving the gravel a maroon color

The same color of the dry smock I wore

At my menial job in the grocery store

 

 Where the older boy from produce eyed me up and I fell in love

Right there

I never pulled my hair back again

And so it goes, becoming her veins

Tied into knots

to keep the space filled

And she so willed

For a change

And he pulled the bullet from his

Pulitzer Prize winning purple heart

At least now it’s purple

And she watched, constantly birthing

More grief and resentment

As he watches through you and your

Battered p***y with contemptment

Your pummeled body, still full of Max’s

And Mary’s and maybe even a

John Jr. 

That’s your own bullethole

Your own unhealed wound

The glistening pink hued bullet keeps passing through

Farther up the more he can squeeze through

He’s aiming for the command center in your brain

And one day he’s going to

 

shoot

 right

through

it