Song of the Praying Mantis

I am over bowing forget me nots,
great, green Moor and tide stains
on infinite shores,
hollowed bees and the "Fuck, shit, sugar," of Lego-sole-surfing.
I am lambs lined up for killing
calling for Mothers, unable to smother their enemies,
mercy in Jerusalem,
Naval wives weighted by pride,
waiting, aging, holding onto holding.
I am the honesty amongst women
kind that sits in right disgust,
roomy, burn it down ability,
a fuck for fertility, song the Praying Mantis sings.
I am door half open,
door half shut,
a train full of shitheads downing tinnies,
gangrene in the depths
of lymphoma,
the Groke longing to touch a heart,
your Dad's fruit bowl years before the end
 
and to some degree
 
the drug-addled youth who'll shag for a sixpence,
steal ham and sell it on Facebook to friends,
broiler hen who lost legs 'pon hefts of breathy theft,
kryptonite, 'times aconite,
dosage of five milligrams,
scale of a sesame seed
and those six Spanish glasses only a child could love,
crochet squares almost round,
sound of singing in a corridor,
Leicester Square  
and too much butter,
the butter with other butters in the petting zoo,
clumped mascara after clumsy Friday nights,
the worst bits of Summer,
best bits of Spring
and I intend
never to make it to ninety nine,
unafraid of time,
more infatuated,
afraid of a life lived 'less,
knee deep in my own trauma,
I undress it as flora, and tirelessly endure.
There's a score in the sunset,
white flesh on our skyline,
I wonder if I'll meet it one day.