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“Out of the
Picture.”
(windburned,
your little doll is
hurting.)
around her the cries
of the smallest of small, the
biggest of big children
resound.
somewhere a star is
painfully, with intense labour
and explosions of supernova,
born. and soon even the
smallest of smallest but the
biggest of biggest children
grow old
amidst great celebrations.
your little doll is
flying, forever flying
tip-tapping on her little tightrope
until, with great excitement
and fear in her audience,
she falls. you’ve told her
what she now knows is
true.
forever’s a dream
just like clouds and silt
made of fairy dust
and pernickety riddles.
forever’s a dream
the puppeteer played
and now, irritated, he’s
lost.
forever’s a dream –
she’ll tell you anytime.
so go screw her up
literally and figuratively.
go fuck the ideas out of \
her small mind,
while she waits.
use all her big words
to confuse her,
and say
“you’re but a child, m’dear
rant your aspirations away…”
like secret erotica
she hides, guilt amounting
persuaded by the sky.
her metaphor for wanting
is as deep as black
as high as blue
as lonely as your eyes.
what about the promises
all tinged with rust and green
and mould and fungus and mud
yellowed and greyed and darkened
what about the promises
that stayed forever
one day
she and he will be grown
like ripe mulberries
(two little dolls
held by your strings)
passionate dispassion
outmatched by dispassionate passion –
so their children are mixed,
wondering.
no one knows who or where they are.
this family, not yet
this family, so far
‘tis the pixies who play about with
our minds.
then one fine day she ran
and he was supposed to run
but you, oh godly you
she ran but there was no one to
run to
running on a parallel line, while
endless particles – electrons, protons,
neutrons,
danced.
your little doll is weeping
looking up and beseeching
the god, nonexistent.
drips of poignant songs and
rows of vegetable sorrows
linger in parlance while
tears transform to rubies.
the pain of money stays
long after she is silent.
it transforms, materialises
intensifies into a new pain
unidentifiable yet sleek
and dirty with lies.
soon she is strung
between two poles
torn, torn, torn.
as the opera intones
all does not end well.
moreover, ginger aspirations
are merely phantasy,
and lies are truths.
withering, your little doll
lies there, waiting
but you, oh godly you
forever entwined in your
heavenly romances,
never lurk.
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