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.
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