The Stalker Has Nothing to Lose

Pagoda sleeves fly wide open, and these

tiny little scale models of her incisors, no,

they’re shrunken friends from school, lake

specific critters in their sperm shapes, making

somewhat amateurish passes at la belle romance

reminiscent of that of the shoemaker doing piercing

on the side, back alley style, selling gold and calling it

by a name he heard in the sleep of a Tokyo bus sweeper.

The author is told by Steppenwolf in a dream to write but

can’t the more she swathes her form in biker garb, in smellum,

in her avoidance of the procedures of eradicating herself in order

that she might avoid the process of confronting not doing the work.

Her face looked as if it were carved in genital loathing, a ballsy, dainty

mademoiselle who evidently. Of course this could all be connected with.