Ten turncoats corner me with machete
acrylics, hissing on their pedestals, rising
from the dirt. I should have strived for
a more boring life. I’m a Russian princess
slash pop star running around a snowy town
square in high heels and no pants. This
is the look I’m going for. It’s a good look.
I’m having a lot of meaningless sex
in meaningful places, enjoying the exquisite
rinds of insignificant men. Pungent with woe,
they pretend not to stare at my thighs. The sun turns
its bitch-face to my subjects and their construction
paper lives, sets a bunch of shit ablaze.
The way people go nuts when you leave them
in the heat, all the scotch tape flying loose.
From every loudspeaker an anthem rings; black
hearts and ankles break to the beat. I kiss
every forehead I see, my lips creating craters.