Lady.

You poor papered princess; so naked
And ripped, with your soiled, surly crown and
Bleach-white highlights that ensnared your tresses

You’re crusty and brown – An abysmal heap, such
A victim of teabags and British stirring and American
Bleating-

You cried to me, loved me, you loved so many more
We all had our grab
You’re such a little-

I’ve stripped all the paper from your back and your breasts
It made such a quaint little protest, but it couldn’t speak
You would not bleed – just laid there and took it,
You masochist:
 
And now I’m smothered, choking on the
Repetitions, smoking on the dusts you leave;
Gothic, Romantic, Baroque, Pastoral-
Make up your mind, you fickle bitch
Before I tear away your muscle,
And burn you to an unpleasant fizzle
And have an affair with your digital cousin.