Ding dong the witch is dead
bitch must be contained
she’s solely seen red
her emotions are muddled
unnerving
and carving
the cage
for the smoke-sad canary bird
that random broad
existence is futile
and with reptilian
talons fingers
piano
tactile scales
you meant more to me
self-medicating
in your mattress
singular dread bed
erase the he/said
she/said
battle of cowshed
so we crawl on all fours in weeping
whining
dismembering remembering
pounding internally on suburban walls
scrawling my relevance
which you deny and define
behind hospitable hourly
medicated whore-doors.
She who whispers your weeping
shaman emotion-channeling
robotic male changeling
child
you
child.
Ding Dong
Filed under Poetry
Hi Kaitlin. Very nice piece here. I like how quickly it shifts from the sing song, familiar opening lines to a very gritty life slicer.
I want to recommend a piece of short fiction that was in last weeks The New Yorker magazine. I think you would really like it. It includes a changeling boy.
Thank you for the kind words. I would love it.
hahahaha i love it and i really don’t enjoy much
Deity bless you, Jack Henry.