The red army draws collective breath whistles it out in a howling gust of wind snarling.
She stands tall – her long tresses raised to the heavens
A subtle message from Hell’s dwellers: it was back to attack.
Every month, they stalk her just as night follows day, full-mooned. Hairy palms, yellow slit eyes – she would rather die of an internal haemorrhage than be demeaned.
They see the blood trickling down her legs.
Draw in closer – metallic scented pack.
Pro-choice in an era where science can make the dead come to life – yet still she must bleed whether she carries life inside her or expels the botanist’s seed.
Condemn her to a life in pro. Micheal Jordan had space jam. A notorious – well-received flow. She blushes every time her breasts swells – nature twists in a smile. Nipples point straight at the mouths of the hungry -ready for their feed.
To be Anonymous in a WikiLeaks world. Memes, social media information convulsing out statements of change:
Did you know?
Think about how brainwashed – your mind is!
She knows she still rolls in her own shit.
Unfit for a carry one movie with Benny hill and the league of justice.
Dead pool eyes.
She knows this world is too abrasive
Her skin smooth
Her passion unhinged
One straight jacket away from having the whole collection of brand unfit.
‘It’s a happening, baby ‘-throwback to Allan Kaprow.
Everyone is crazy. Everyone has issues.
Everyone stand and link arms at the toll bridge
show solidarity for your fallen foes.
The ones who fell 20 feet from the building or overdosed on legal high drugs brought from some hoodie called Jack Wills.
How to be seen and have her privacy in a cyberbully surveillance world?
Throwdown your sticks allow overgrowth to infect the anti-stigma hedges trimmed neatly in a row.
She screams out in shrill
Ears sharp enough to raise the dead.
How is it possible no one sees or hears of her ills.
Despicable matters in the eyes of the living dead.
An out or an in.
A place that stirs broth from her blood flow waits until her insulin levels drop to an all-time grave
Sugar-coated words nauseate her.
Her duty to be human and keep her heart on the ticker – inside she knows the hurricane won’t stop swaying the palm trees until she is torn from her roots
Mr Big has an acute perspective unable to see she is drowning with every weapon she draws.
It doesn’t take a hostage negotiation expert to know that eventually, even the savviest terrorist can be worn down to drop its ammunition.
Stockholm! Place of the cordial juiced up paedophiles.
Intensive herbal essence conditioning treatment is their only hope of showing her how to be free.
A Jesus embellished slice of toast to honour her first Butter valley communion.
She thinks she is free.
She knows it’s part of her syndrome.
To admit her state of inferiority to herself would mean she ‘s dubious about her declaimed existence.
Her mind is her prison. She has the padlock and the pin number. She sits up to 24 hours a day punching in the password, unlocking the clunk of metal chains – on a loop.
An exercise in futile persistence.
The ending is found in her very beginnings born out of blood, stained, crying
Pulled out with forceps the white coats defined her form from the moment they beat her into breathy life.
Smiling jokester with broad shoulders fighting all corners of the globe
Her last breath will be when she lets go-
In her state of cocoon expose her true misery to the world – look at her in her strife