long finger-nails
cream hands
and a smile that drives you
to hell and beyond,
there’s a boy out there who
calls me Madonna
we’re back in a time where oceans
smell of women with lassy legs
and pink tongues,
polka dot bikinis
And orange skin,
it’s contours and perfect lies;
He saw me semi-covered in
baked sham.
A martini with no ice
and I taste his salt on mine
Its glue and home hogged mother food,
I smell bourgeois flavours,
It’s a risk but I leave a number
and a stone heart to his surveillance.
Tonight
when he calls me “baby girl”
I’ll fall off my bed
break my lamp
and step on my shattered self,
It’s a slow painful
self-discovery
process,
Mother said women are
meant to be taken care of.
How boy?
He wears green with blues
but his country eyes are a mix of
charcoal and grey
His hair smells of nature
but my birds bleed crimson
It’s the sky versus you,
My dear boy;
He calls me Madonna
of the blue sky.
we me meet.
And again
until
I stop reading poems
they warn you against,
Open graves, they bear
a resemblance you fear,
thin lips
cold hands
unshaven intentions
clay eyes,
there are dying birds in my sky
Oh! But boy
how should I;
He calls me
Madonna of the blue sky.
M