Thursday, January 07, 2010

The Witch of Brabizante

My reflection in her pink skin made my eyes water. The large head
rolled around its neck
like a satellite dish
at SETI. Her legs
plunged into the wallflower skirt
like an underwater ledge. The acres of hair
an arable brain.
Her lips were a puncture hole
in a rubber mattress; the air
rushing out was more toxic
than Tutankhamen,
than a fly strip
at a piggery. A rubber pompom of subjects
dotted her “I” and pitted
glib pronouncements
with evacuated fricatives. The baste
ladled tongue
lapped at shores
where language competed
with sea wrack. A gothic
scraped from a skillet
in Arcimboldo’s kitchen.
Teeth crowded forward
like the charioteers
of the Elgin Marbles. Her smile
was a skyline from Jerome Bosch.

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