mannequin

when i think back to my childhood,
there is a doll.
                      no wait, that's not right;
                      i was more a mimicry of humanity
                      than something so easily different

so, daddy carved me arms and legs and
a mind of diamonds and rosewood and
sugar, and big glassy doe eyes complete
with a set of curled eyelashes as i wrapped
men around my fingers like a chinese finger
trap or a set of rings, three sizes too small,
                      but he was never really happy with me,
                      not really because there was always something too plastic
                                                                                                glassy
                                                                                                transparent about me,

this isn't a case of the bitch biting the hand of its owner,
not when the maker calls his child a whore
but you made me, goddamnit

and these are the words i will never be able to tell you,
because my mouth has been sewn shut by my web of lies;

-

i'm an unfinished work of art,

but i'm still art, right?

-

six steps to survival

i.
    you're going out to war one day,
    over the hills and far away,
    dulce et decorum est, pro patria mori,
    unknown yet to you is just another story.

ii.
    you're going out to war one day,
    over the hills and far away,
    you've not told your parents yet,

    'cos you know they'd just get upset,

    but you're already near three and a half,
    and you think it's time to make your own damned path.

iii.
    you're going out to war one day,
    over the hills and far away,
    don't you know what lies ahead?
    death and blood's not in your head,
    for you are young and Glory calls,
    so you plan to leave in the early Fall,

iv.
    you're going out to war today,
    over the hills and far away,
    run your fingers along her skin,
    paint and taint her with pleasant sin,
    she cries for you in the early morn,
    but you, you are so very long gone.

v.
    you're going out to war today,
    over the hills and far away,
    you trudge through mud and spice and sand,
    bitter boots cry as they touch the promised land,
    not knowing that back at home,
    there's a little bundle of your blood and bones,
    they'll call her 'dear' and 'heart' and 'love'
    and hope your return's as swift as doves,
    because she has your everblue eyes,
    that are passed down to whom i've ties.

vi.
    you went out to war that day,
    over those hills and far away,
    lady luck waved the union jack,
    and you, little duck, little dove, came back.

dedicated to his grandfather, for whom the man i love would not be around today. war is foolish and pointless and it's miraculous he survived. i've never been more grateful for anything in my entire life, but i'd kneel and kiss this man's feet for living. thank you for surviving. your grandson is awesome.

platinum albums

i am fire and blood and screams and rage,
your voice is spearmint toothpaste,
on an aeon-old burn,

your heartbeat is the soundtrack of my mind,
but your pulse fades beneath my fingertips,
as i hug you goodbye.

crumbling sandcastles

old man, old man,

you used to live in a castle, all turrets and towers,

embedded with gems of red and green and blue,

embroidered with gold;

it was fool's gold and

rome wasn't built on rage or jealousy,

and you're a fool to forget.

princesses and princes and a mistress,

kept your castle safe with you as the king,

kept you safe from the crocodile smiles in the moat below,

but not the crocodile tears, when they show

and you lost it all to the queen,

-- i could’ve never been your princess and you were

never my king.

old man, poor man,

i am your daughter not a princess

not just another rhinestone

to decorate&adorn your

crumbling sandcastle

with anymore,

dad.