Psychopink | Giana Angelillo
I run through, strawberry.
All perfect, pink stilettos are yours
& discarded to God. Like being born,
or in his child-strewn alley, homicide.
The white sequin, the lexicon of
perfume, & me, God’s back-alley bitch.
Tethered to a hand by
a throat. I could salvage nothing.
I could not foam like a pretty witness.
I could not take bread
the way they wanted me to. Remarkable
girl, a plea of heaven, to reside in
saturated fat, the buoyant, yellow artery,
unlike I have known it as a junky,
when I would stick the syringe in &
get so excited I
pushed heroin into that dark cheek.
Tha yolk veils me as a nursemaid,
I am contained. Within a wish
under my skin, the daisy-pale
Canal of me & my love for the stick;
All the women I have been & could be—
—None have I been so delicious,
Prime cut of cunt, & king of
Anorexics, & best at every-fuckin-thing.
Especially the junkhood, the glamour
Bank-heist of bein a death-walk,
Each morning on the street for a killer
where the kills are coddled &
escorted onto large, open stovefaces.
Burn. Burn. Burn.
Then at night dissolving too easy into
some tall glass of water.
I am so like a man with my scrap
metal palace, & my cheap wants,
My highs in the kid kingdom
are miraculous, & infinite, and my
vaults of heaven—desperate, like any
fuck that can be bought, what it lacks
in holiness it supplies in derangement.
I will be a big-breasted & black-eyed
Beauty, & I will be on all your screens,
wanton summers, so manufactured,
as buttercream & plastic surgery could
make. The laws of bad Lov have
wrung me & set me over tha sink.
I will be ecstasy-easy, easy
My violet valentine is owed me, &
I will not be denied a second time.