poem: outline / satire / art

i thank God for internet aesthetics, that i am able to remake myself in
so many, livid, anthologies —
the tide comes like a cusp over my breasts, but it is just my
hands, clutching myself, seeing/comparing the male freedom
swimming, angrily, through my eyes and then — these
cold small breasts. i sat in a cafe, in a meadow,
in a mad house, and i was able to write — i put my hair up
in grand bows, polyester shirts tucked-into black skirts, goth boots, housemother
makeup. lipstick is for the gods, bacchante smeared like paris
across — the closings of my teeth, which I open and shut,
like gates, to remind myself of the meadow: it sat low and long, pale
yellow and gutted; you painted me in with the devil and the brontes and the other
anti-heroes, lying swollen in the grass, the smile of my breasts
loud and heroic, the reflection of homer (or of homers), caught —
voices are sweet-cut from the other room, grass dripping out of my
mouth when i try — to speak, the painting/poem/bad cafe
hallucination does it better, than i do myself, thank God for
internet schizophrenia, that i can be woman and nothing
and anger, at once.

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