1.

Some days are stained with bittersweet pangs
of missing my blood-hued Mary Janes;
but sometimes my shoes grow so battered and bruised,
I must throw them away. Like overplayed clich s.
Like dirty white-gloved poems about Alice in Wonderland,
in which I rip off her fingers.
Twist them to create candy gags.
White chocolate bunny with pink sugar-bead eyes.
White cake body with a hankering to knife,
to serve itself as petite petit fors w/squiggles. Squiggly things
squiggle in my head*more leech than peach
gel from a pastry bag tip. My head isn't sweet.
It's occupied. It shrieks. Her squiggly things
are squeezed decorations. She wears lace-collared dresses.
Shimmies blond tresses. Caramelized strands melt down
to her ten vanilla tootsie rolls. You know you want to
stick a candy thermometer inside her. Taste her
delicate bone crunch. Mild peppermint. Small mouthful
of sweetened air. You know you want to
suck off those pink-frosted cheeks. Make her gasp.
Make her gape open. Bite off her head.
Is she hollow inside? Is your tongue such a creamy dream
you feel like a queen? Soon the cloying aftertaste
makes an entrance. That would be me. A 33
year old woman and still she persists
in wearing knee-highs, you might think of my approach.
Well, why don't you eat shit and
chocolate, jellybeans, pretty little cupcakes w/strawberry filling.
You might think I'm flaunting my little girl fairy tale
legs, but maybe these socks are hiding my flesh from the ravenous
flock of fairy tale shrikes. They shriek. They plummet. They peck
out eyes and replace them with chocolate-covered cherries.
Maybe these socks are hiding my scabs from their hooked beaks.
Maybe I want to RIP THEM OFF, RIP THEM OFF, RIP THEM
OFF WITH HER HEAD! Maybe I want to see red
prettily spray across pink cupcake papers.


2.

If you were a fairy tale shrike, you know you'd want to
impale the swallows, too. They are so pathetically weak.
Why must they swallow so much, so fast, so deep
and then feign innocence while pantomiming a wide-eyed gag.
Pornographic dessert products. Slutty sheep. Cheep cheep cheep.
Cheep cheep cheep cheep cheep cheep...
How long can you abide by those frilly peep-boxes,
those silly peep-shows. Little pillow feathers flinging themselves at you
like pointless confetti. When will they learn that life is not a tea party
or a tart contest. Grab those flaky, fluffy nothings by the gullets
and shake them like rag dolls who are trying to fly.
Posers. Strumpets. Whorish crumpets. Grab them by those creamy throats
and teach them a lesson about curdling and clotting.
Stick it to them. Show them what it's really like
to be on display. Pinned into place and glazed
like a gory pastry specimen. Peep transfixed into shriek.