that kind of woman

 

she has many men
because her need is so great
she’s that kind of woman.

she winks, and she smiles at us,
and we crumble; we who are made of paper.

she fashions voodoo dolls out of rags,
paints knavish clown faces on each,
and she names them. christian names
that once had virtue.

she pushes stick-pins into the legs
to render them immobile.
but who would run, even if we were free?
she is coquette. that kind of woman.

I wonder how often she caresses the one
named John, kisses it sweetly, before
her vampiric mirth engages…

dangling on strings, the puppets dance
by the mere trembling of her fingers.

she has pilfered my spirit, the only essence
of ‘poet’ within me. I am left with feeble hands
and tormented heart to write out my miseries:
pitiful rebuttals meant only for the incinerator.
how wretched am I,
that I file this under ‘love poems’?

but a man can swallow only so much bile;
I resurrect my Spartan eyes,
I stand mighty, like a rock,
and I blaspheme the goddess:

you want me to dance?

sing me a fucking love song…