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My distorted variation of the bell
jar-
a platic, purple relic of my former voluptuous
existence-
the negative space, which once encased
the episodes of my life-
a line up of Shakespearean tragedies,
transjectory representations of my forbidden fruit-
the swinging pulp on my Billy Holiday tree,
tracing blood stains in the wind-
a self-massacre on the negative force-
like seeking suicide on wrists to take fault
for my petty sins.
Like that has-been of my love affair,
where he transgressed by his carress
the very forbidden fruit
pulling cherry roots for his lust seeds to bear
produce-
popped pulp juice spilling between my stick legs,
who knew my children would be renegades-
imploding with the notion that
their father force-fed me
my maternal responsibilities.
Imploding and drowning in bloddy lusts
inherent in broken trusts-
striveling up like raisans in the sun-
Tell me. What does happen when a dream is deffered?
I planted nuances of love and veneration
to reap the non-existing benefits of penetration-
40 days and my mind remains
perpectually flooded with instincts
to bust the pulp of my pain
and release my insane reaper-
grim but programmed to trim
and desecrate the formation of dreams deffered
because their roots were built on trust
and watered by my tears.
Grim reaper, cut off my dreams
because my Garden of Eden is suffocating in weeds.
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