Here are a few lines from one of the 14 poems within this new chapbook ("Insecticide Dye Job" is the name of this piece):
Nobody else can keep you inside them long enough to glue you back together. Nobody wants to anyway. Nobody desires to dye your strands together and dive into your revolting mess. Nobody will stick to the different ways you tension thread your own head and then call its damage unfathomable and claim you are repeatedly dive bombed with insect stings. As if every new set of wings is bound to break and diverge towards poison aimed at your head. Aimed straight but then warped into another spewed bottle of broken repellent. Nobody can hear your buzz flair. Your dye looks more purple inside the shower than it does on your dark hair, but nobody wants to take a shower with you.
Even if you would let them shave it off. Even if you tell them it’s the only time they can see all of you with your panties off, because you don’t want the insects to crawl inside that part too. As soon as you tell him he can keep it inside you all night, he will pull it out and let the stinging insects invade. They always pull out too soon or not soon enough. Now you’re an upset; now you’re pregnant with another swarm of confusion. Now you’re just a hole filled with nothing except your own contorted head.
If you DO want to dive into more of this revolting mess (at least temporarily), click the link above, buy it, and dive.