Bedroom Pop

I think I might stay in my bedroom today  my mother didn’t tell me when you stepped out you’d be a needle in a stack of needles, polished metallic grey ripped enough to poke the earth and sadistic enough to watch it bleed.

I don’t want to hurt things to understand them, instead I’d rather lick the pad of my index finger and graze the surface, walk round it in circles till sanity is no longer, and the blisters on my feet become sore and there is a rhythm of pain that settles.

Heel to toe, heel to toe

And even when they’ve begun to bleed, and the rhythm dances me cross her for the thousandth time, and vomit thrashes at the base of my throat.

The curiousness that sparkles around the rim of my pupils keeps my eyes on her

Heel to toe, heel to toe

She’s vast, plump, stuffed with mystery, wonder, and adventure. She is the epitome of youth, but simply sways to soft jazz on her axis, and you can’t tell her the time that has dissolved, because the music is too loud, and she is too lost.

She is not the sun nor the moon, but a maid. Catering to the needles, good needle, bad needle, smart needle, dumb needle.

 

Needles, needles, needles.

So we poke her and watch the warm blood trickle from her orifices, and hear her cry but never stop swaying because she can’t stop.

We are part of a system that is too large to be broken, but just small enough to be overrun, traded, and stolen.

Generations of filthy hands gripping her hips singing a soft hypnosis, allowing her to remain lost, while we burn, slash, and cut.

But when she realizes that we are no more than a diamond in a galaxy full of riches, and she’s filled with hot magma that has the potential to melt the needles down to a burnt puddle that steams with pitiful despair

       

Oh, she’ll be a killer.

 

This poem is about: 
Our world

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