Tweety

Emptied buckets lie waiting for a sharp impact
right on the curb, beside the sharp tarmac road-
each bird beak spike rips your plump sole a little,
revealing flesh a little whiter, a little dirtier.
She'll pull on the soft rubber mask and drag you by the hair
drag drag drag
what a drag it is, sitting up here
without hair,
she'd say, before then. Life is a cab,
a dirty, smoked out cab with a grizzled grey man leering
at you, his eyes forming a ray of light through your pretty pretty dress.

I'd better leap through the glass walls into the dank, open air.
She found you walking there on the pavement, without shoes,
your body had been carefully constructed out of bird's nests and gauze,
eyes drooping quietly, squinted even in the cushioning gloam.
Disease, decadence and desire had exploded nearby
and you bore the twitching debris,
even your eyelashes were weighed down by encrusted glitter fragments.
A wafer of life beneath the heavy world of the senses,
unable to escape predictability to everyone but yourself.

She felt your frame was delightful, and pounced,
and now your skin is being eroded by the spines that previously
had only teased your feet for a game of pain.
Now those wounds are shrieking to be touched once more-
anything but to avoid this war of attrition against the body,
corpse to be.
But she just left you in the nearest dustbin when she noticed your unbroken nose.
Way it goes.