I’d had several shots of volcanic acid to ease my equilibrium.
The slander beneath my magic carpet
came to a halt at the bedpost. My inner lining
was forcing me to come clean. My conscience
was haunting my iridescence. It was coming down
to the upswing of my hoop skirt and how well
I could balance on the tightrope of my hemline.
My bruises were oozing come-hither stares
as I led the parade of my masquerade.
Behind the veil of my Cheshire cat grin
of teeth baring shame, I revealed my
I had nine lives to live, was on the seventh
flight of fancy, on an elevator stuck
on the sixth floor.
Round and round and round I went, leaving
baskets of candy on May Day, wishing it
were Halloween, anything but
my fucking birthday.
The cupcakes were lined up, the candles were
burning my flesh and ravaging my smoky ravine.
I was teetering on scandal and parody.
I had painted myself into a corner,
doing the self-mocking flagellation mambo,
in a brand spanking new pair of shoes,
leaving footprints for someone
to find me.
A grifter, a pioneer of sadistic synopsis
and cynicism challenged my varicose veins.
Eye popping, butter-finger burlesque, was all
I could rely on, that and a ‘65 Ford Galaxy 500,
with a bad paint job and a crocheted afghan,
hiding my ripped interior.
My heart raced with frenetic frenzy
and “why don’t you call me?” confusion.
My bottom was somebody else’s top
of the morning.
Humbled by the rocky landscape
and jagged desperation, I fought to
stay above board and ahead of the game.
Through the maze of carney’s
and bearded ladies, snake charmers
and Starbuck’s frappacinos, I was caught
holding the whip.
My fantasy of living in the lap of perjury
was going against my migraine. I was
sleepwalking and waiting for the day,
when the moon would switch places with
the sun, and hoping that somehow,
mommy and daddy would just get along.