A cancerian side-step
on the mountain like Otep
Shamaya, that is…
infernal screaming
salt-rivers streaming
crevasses and gorges
eye’s-blood forges
lava lines on a face
botox not to erase
triumphant tall tales
as well the fails
of proportions epic, that is…
stories rife
furious life
noisy this silence
obscuring the violence
mind gone wild
untamed adult-child
mutters insanities
trapped in banalities
of one’s own choosing, that is…
inaudible plea
no chutzpah to flee
this bird-cage un-gilded
wings flapping bewildered
red smear on a white page
reading lines on a stage
one so prudently set
best not forget
designer and choreograph
of this story’s epitaph
she/herself and yours truly
ever most duly
contrary in diction
this life of non-fiction, mine, that is…
dance of cancerian side-steps
while ludicrous forceps
tear out the part
once resembled a heart
and that bitch called love
bleeds on the floor
resembles the whore
that I am…
fuck
me, no,
you.
~Marcela: unapologetically yours.
June 10, 2016