What beauty is this held
in unwilling grip
a butchered babe of by gone days
lips sewn shut and shaking?
We are always more
than party favours, treats, meats
laid out, spread for a rummage,
a search;
on the hook to be eaten, beaten, bait
sunk stolen in your misery made
real by ego and trip fell
down all the stairs.
Stars for a striking fist then kissed,
pretty flowers on a postcard, stockinged legs, sharp heels
sharper swords and walls not ours
yet hosting our captivity
so slut sinned and savage are we.
Tamed by dye, stretched, made up painted and perfect in doubt
who will be the master now? When all these things never
touched me, never knew me, never was me.
Inside our minds the soul is free.
We wash the blood from the flesh that is ours.
Sometimes it has been yours.
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