Part I: The Inner Eyelid of Annunciation
Womanly warrior whispers
of parental dissonance;
the void left vacant
by heartless disparaging demoness
who indoctrinated decorum,
even when disturbingly disoriented;
ultimately dying of dissatisfaction.
Illustrious alliteration
illustrates illusive illegitimate elucidation,
when remembering memorable memories
of transformative teenage tomboy temptations
which typify, titillate, terrify and tenaciously tickle
the terrifically transitory transillumination territory
of a tear-transporting-trauma,
tremulous with trepidation.
Fecund fundamentalist female,
fearing frustration,
fetishistically fostered forced feminization,
frequently forgetting ferocious fastidiousness
in favor of fashion forward formularies
of fatalistic forgoing…
Fuck that! Fuck this!
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
Part II: Someone to Wraith Over Me
The premature dusting
of witch woman’s skeletal desiccation
is an abomination
to bitch queen shepherdess goddess
who bequeathed this nightmare distortion
unto the world beneath
the tattered folds of
her shattered girlhood obsessions.
She, then a shade of innocence untouched
by the ravages expressed by others and
experienced by each of her antecedents,
draws charcoal sketches of haunted childhood homes
containing all the monsters one expects
with none of the cynicism, skepticism or irony of age.
Interlude: Forgiveness For Unformed Thoughts and Persons
Know this mister,
Poet-Sister,
Gothic-Mother,
Hooker-Lover,
All of this from prism gleaned;
loneliness and wisdom weaned…
on oldest old wood holly charm
which seeks to heal but does her harm.
Part III: The Fate of Foolishness
She is murdered by her own emotions,
ripped apart by the loathsome gentlemen pretenders
who often inspired her frenzied zeal
and seduced her to her supplicant
disconnected desolation.
She cries out for seamstresses
to sow her back to perfect completion,
yet there’s nothing wrong
with this patchwork creation.
I yearn to pass her poetry well received
by older incarnations in abject exaltation
of artistically symbolic expressionism,
but the politically mislead
withered maiden hand of the despicable crone
rejects my assertions despite the burden of proof
on display before milky white cataract eyes,
long ago blinded by gossamer hatred
and ephemeral morality.
She is now but a husk,
a hollow hardened cancerous shell,
containing pustule ichor
of the most diabolical
mind altering ignorance
which threatens to destroy us all.
Written by Jason Wright
November 8, 2018