Queen of the Underworld

Posted by Erik Moshe on Sunday, March 4, 2012 Under: Poetry


It
tugs at your heart
in a strictly non-affectionate way
consumes the day you thought you could represent
the goddesses of femininity.

Your nails manicured, glass stone gravelets
Bracelet by Tiffany, a mindfull of gadgets
promises by a boy named Steve to be the apple of your i

(he asked for your phone number
but you were too busy texting Aaliyah)
because you were damned, you were
less than a mediocrely dressed vampire, you were
less than impressive after Stewart Town sent you
on an endless errand
after taking a bite outta your paycheck

"Ready the bathwater, my dear"
or
"Hey, can you turn on the shower really quick?"
so you went straight for the soap opera
(you're predictable)
and fashioned yourself american idolization
to craft model citizens with minimal cognitive drainage
the social statements you made
became the death sentence of most young female bombshells
stripped of their formidables
two dark canvased eyes peaking out of an Egyptian lingerie billboard
touching touchy subjects
feeling the tender pulse of each nonchalant citygoer

Vulnerability must have it's advantages though ..
- it's custom for a man to enter through an exit wound.

In forgetting to seal off the skin tissue corridor
the scent of shrivelled unity travelled though hotel high water

"Walk a mile in my shoes
or trip in my paralyzed pair of Paris stilettos..."

You shed tears towards the underground sea, exempt of zen
You are a queen of your own world, and also a slave to it's woes
leaning against a plexiglass throne
of complacency

In : Poetry 



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