Dank

Trail pulpy red digits down the pale plaits of that child
because all she will know is that you cannot possibly be internal-
the infernal racket spewed by my appliances is nothing in comparison
to the screams of the girls in the irony of light pollution, and the dullest of alleys.
They can't hear you, can they? They are buried in chemical,
black dust and pink powder clouding their already obscured pupils
which learn nothing, see nothing, are nothing, will be nothing and I
won't face it without bird beaks and soft tweaks of plump skin
which blushes at your static electricity, and then drowns in purple.
No queen ever wore it. It's a ruse- the regal shade- it's rude, illicit,
only to be found festering in a gutter, in many rings of oily fluid
from exhausted bodies, exhaust pipes, exhausted lives-
and what's more it will only scream uninmaginable, unholy noises
directly into you nostrils so that for a blissful and disgusting minute
you are the dirt. More guiltless than the baby which selfishly sucks at its mother,
rendering the remainder of womankind wild and hysterical in envy
and beyond the boundaries of dignity remains solidly naked for months
end to end, bending toes and at very last toenails which scrape and gag
the placid, lonely placenta. There are no mothers. There are simply wombs.
Submissive and pained, they must shed their load or burst open,
becoming, ultimately, fountains in national parks for passers-by to gaze at in awe:
embodiments of noises, septic tanks and daisy chains.
The moon wanes,
and strangely a pale world seems smaller.