The finger that disfigured me
triggered a picture of you,
a landscape in blue
that made me see red.
I menstruate in the gallery
bleeding apologies,
passing analogies
flushing live streams
to your web-cast, a thread
spinning Songs for the Dead.

One appetite sated
by days spent sedated
I shrivel through night
to decipher the shrink rap,
a contract secures
the old guise we all recognise
cameo queen acting out the obscene.

Performance anxiety
stifles sobriety;
the slumbering dumb
lead the blind from behind.

Mother me
smother me
wrap me in memory
cool heads and true hearts
the cat in the cradle
cut flowers from the grave
slow food on the table
the good times
when faeries wove wonders
that suffered the children
to mount midnight mares
while uniformed unicorns
blew up their horns
on resolving our nursery crimes.
Day breaks its promise
no solace arising
from simply surviving
the Erebus complex by reflex.

Take me
relieve me
of chastity, dignity
sick days and wild nights
a plague on your parasites
once bitten, twice viral
the suck of the spiral
that pulls me to bed
time to fuck with my head
the insidious incubus
stifling nursery cries.

Funfairs and funerals
nurture by numerals;
drawing attention
this childlike invention.

04/24/2004

Posted on 04/24/2004
Copyright © 2025 Laura Doom