The Lord of the Flies
Bordeaux stains a picture perfect life.
With a knife held still, in a still life,
She captures it into a frame of doom
till he knocks her brush across the room.
Sending her freedom flying past,
paint and blood splatter across the glass.
Like Jackson Pollock’s tacky constellations
they scatter into astrological formations,
predicting her life to shattering pieces.
On the tablecloth’s perfect creases,
soon to be tainted with Bordeaux’ pink,
the bottle of wine, teetering on the brink,
falls into catastrophe on the floor.
As she had seen it a thousand times before,
she stares at the million faces reflected in
the green shards of Bordeaux sin.
“Dive in” , “Dive in” they say,
“Sip, sip, sip. Drink it all away”
On her knees she laps at every drip,
with her tongue, savoring every sip.
Lips drunk on her anger so divine,
vehemently sucking the vengeance wine.
With alligator tears, she sobs her liars cries,
so that he will believe her whispering lies.
She doesn’t want to spoil her dark surprise,
so she hides her plans for his soon demise.
Playing the role of the innocent dove,
she crouches in the shadows of their false love,
Laying in the miserable sheets he bought,
She pretends to be the lovers they are not.
Painting the shattered Bordeaux unbroken,
he feels the hate and rage unspoken.
Now that hate and rage turn cold,
he feels his powers beginning to fold.
She becomes the monster of his fears.
She no longer sheds her alligator tears.
It has come to pass, the dreaded time.
With the six o’clock final chime.
“Where is my fucking dinner” he calls.
And thus their fateful evening falls.
She prepares his last supper with spite,
adding spiked justice to every bite.
He sits down and begins to eat,
not knowing he will be her meat.
Pretending to be his wife so kind,
knife in hand, she attacks from behind.
Agile and quick, she pounces with skill.
Rapidly ending his squealing cries.
Tonight, he is the boar for kill
and she is the lord of the flies.

To the demands
We belong
We follow
Whose command
We obey
To the regiment
We march
In circles
Blindly starving
Our force-fed television bodies
While
We wish, dream, aspire
Hope to be complete
So incomplete
We hate, resent, punish, chastise, abuse
Mutilate the soul temples
In which our soulless minds wander
To ponder, where, when, how
We got lost
Filtered and Fed
By the mindless machine that tells us
We are nothing!
So We SCREAM!
The confusion, hate, fear of who
We are not
But still trying to be
What We are told
We want
But will never have
The Revlon Lips
Gillette Legs
Finesse Hair
Only to feed our own starving mouths
To a self hate lipstick and
Smear it on a drunk, confused, jealous
Slave of a barbell
Who claims to be a man
Only so we can call ourselves
A WOMAN?

Coyote's shadow crossed the sand
And drifted into the stars
Night fell upon his neck
with the illusion of fertility
His virility crouched in a
longing to caress
And touch that dark soul
tortured by her monthly black hole
Created by her need to be
like the sun which she was not
In the life where she sought
to find the eternal light
For which she ached
Afraid of promises not kept with
disappointment dripping from his teeth
and beaming like a hungry wolf
He leaped from her bed into the night
Howling through the saguaros
Blaming the dark for his flight
Surrendering a love too soon
Ending his romance with the moon.

Tonight I am ferocious
I growl and tear at the flesh
Of the cold wind ripping through my clothes

Heat and tremendous burning of molten
Inside my stomach as I pedal faster
to feel more and hate less

I scream at the angry wind as it beacons me
whispering my name in icy shivers
To seduce me into it’s frozen loins

It confuses me and teases me making me
pedal harder until I feel the deep
pleasure from the seat

The cold metal seat attempts to arouse me as the
wind pulls me from me from my bicycle,
lifting me into the night

I scream again and release my breaths into
pulsating orgasms as my body collapses

I regain control of the pedals
Together we are machine and human
Making love in the wind

Seventeen
I am not a mother
Whose mother should I be?
No Baby
Not inside ME?
What child will I no longer carry?
Whose pain will I no longer bear?
Second heart beats no more
No my choice?
Will I burn in hell?
Will I be labeled, she who refused to bear?
Bear what?
Bare butt
With diapers, cries, milk,
High School Prom?
I dream an empty cradle
It cries to my arms
But his arms left me more unwanted than
The diapers
Still wearing my own diapers
Still crying for my own mother
Whose knowledge is no help for
my ignorance
nor my innocence
Denied
Virginity stolen
Youth I lied
Pregnancy not chosen
But chosen is what pain can’t decide
To depart the life I may never see
Or depart the life not meant to be
Am I GOD?
No, just an unwanted teenage not mother.