Wednesday

"working woman" (a poem from the other side...)

*note: i wrote this poem in the spring of 2004, way back when... and lucky me, lucky you because i found it after all this time and nearly declaring it legally dead. hooray! enjoy... ;)
(Working Woman)
and she wants a body she screams at the mirror that's lit up in pink but it doesn't answer her back. and counts out her money that she twisted from hands of people who liked her with a barely-there bottom and a nose not her own; a float in a plastic parade all up in her face. and pounding her hips she asks me what do i do to look like this? and i get the sinking suspicion that this scene is a ritual situation with tantrums and rantings for an audience of glass that never repeats her fears of a flattened ass. bouncing her stick-legs as poisonous fun flows vein by vein all blue in tune with each dropped beat, it's nothing new. and lit up in pink her shaky hands bounce back from the silent mirror that doesn't hit back. and she's tugging and twisting her long platinum strands, and she's tugging the heartstrings of the loyal fans jeering and jerking out in the stands. she stands up and stomps out a smoke with a shaky grin, gaining momentum checks in with the pinkish reflection flicking a scar from an ancient c-section and poison throbs through each pore as poorly paid men wait outside panting for more. and with patched-up thigh-highs disguising stick-legs that shake from the shots a shimmering necklace foreshadows her goods. forgetting the pink of the friend in the mirror she steps up and then out and then down to the crowd. shaking and bouncing blinding red strobes get hot as she sweats the wave swelling and then swallowed all on the inside but still bringing drops to the top of the surface she hides. the bulbs burn music into her flesh bringing the red silhouette to a crash on her knees in tune on time in perfect sync those sticks are numb from the heat of the lights and in the heat of the night the dollars come flying from every dark corner for bruises on knees that heal by tomorrow night. shakily rising to the tune fading out she sweats and she pants and avoids looking down as vertigo spins the poison around. but she catches a glimpse of a glass being raised as celebrations at tables remain unfazed she finally feels the knocked-up knee as reality hits that bleached-out head...
she stumbles off stage,
and out
of
the
Red.

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