Say what you will about the street walking, narcotic dependent.
In that Patricia Krenwinkel minus forty pounds kind of way.
Chapped and anemic,
with just the kind of cadaverous,
pallid-gray lips Vogue is selling you
on the shelf in the checkout line at the Piggly Wiggly.
Like blanched ghosts with lovely black eyes
and paper thin skin,
floating through city streets at night fall,
making feeble attempts at strangers,
all with a cutting edge take on personal hygiene.
total life-size Barbie Dolls in Pink,
complete with kissable track marks.
Medicine, murdering crows feet,
with needles and knives
trimming up thighs,
as medusa walks by outside,
with her gaggle of geese,
gagging on gastric bypass meat,
her scent soaked broods
wearing holes in the soles of their feet,
carnivore whores addicted to cosmetic magazine highs,
still feasting on the trimmings of someone else's thighs,
that they paid for.
meant to be nine feet tall,
while we few small tread softly,
roads as trapping and frail as the feet we martyr.
Rumors egg us on to a prize worth the cuts on our soles,
and the souls that we’ve lost to the darkness where we find rest.
Rumors of a short cut through that violent distance.
Curled up next to our monsters counting their claws,
imagining them as hand shadows on the walls,
to keep them from the weight of someone else’s saddle,
still wild at the reigns of our own.