You’re dead to me. I’m dead.
My mother with her snide, jealous perversion sticking her tongue down my husband’s throat.
Sick cunt
Shit cunt
My mother’s a fucked up, narcissistic shit cunt
and I’m a whore.
© Copyright 2020, Poetry Out West, Jodine Derena Butler. All rights reserved
Clock app, I chime well.
The sheets are slithery crevices
Satin-lined, with serpent tongue poised to strike,
It is a meeting of the soul,
A shaft of light
Through cathedrals of stained glass.
Where you are safe,
Where there are no family heirlooms,
No dinner on the table, no lies.
Suave virile hips, the smirk of men
Glaze at her smoke
And I, in my honeyed plume,
Milk a gallon of amphibian seed.
To release
The roar of angst I swallow toads ~
Meat and three vege, a staple,
The ‘Elixir of Life’.
My mouth gags,
The mouth of Mary
When my accelerator touches the pan.
The giggle of my
Plastic features, my way of arching
Johns to rigors of trapeze
Lays on the charm, a gasp.
And it goes on and on, and on.
I shall remain a nymph. Old muscles
Strain like a bough and I
Blush like Betty Boop
Satisfied,
All the sighs of winter, fall
Offering up last seasons rosella
Tea to read.
© Copyright 2019, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved
Appropriated from Sylvia Plath’s ‘Gigolo’, 29 January 1963, Collected Poems, 1981
Poetry Out West 