Little Frankenstein Girl

I have a new book coming out on Interior Noise Press. Some of these will be submitted for it, others will not. Laying on a pile of poems and  just posting them as I feel it. So, to read the poems that won't be on here...you have to buy the book! I'll let you know when its coming out, shouldn't be till later this year which gives me plenty of stuff to post stuff, and stash stuff, to make an incredible book.




Now it's time for a poem: this poem will be in my forthcoming book Interior Noise Press

Published in Sex and Guts Magazine:

Little Frankenstein Girl

little Frankenstein girl
has the heart of a broken organ
with thorns and glass
Bats and Indian ink
seeping thru
sewn together
crookedly stiched
like a pastel valentine heart
filled with mismatched parts

little Frankenstein girl
has the right brain of a killer
her right hand is dominant
while her left foot always faces away
wanting to disconnect
to run
to be free

to not be part of this
fucked up experiment
dreamed up by
a genius dressed in rags
and chased by demons
the kind that really scratch and bite
when you are fast asleep

little Frankenstein girl
is not a little girl anymore
the curls in her hair
dreaded up in the sun
when she makes it out
during the day
she is like Medusa in the wind

Her loud strong voice
muffled under the stitches
that firmly bind her lips together
bondage bringing  pleasure
only to those who wish to keep her silent
(and there are many)

little Frankenstein girl
can't count the stitches on her wrists
from all of those long nights
from her right hand doing
what her left foot wanted to walk away from
and her not understanding
that she was never really alive
in the first place

little Frankenstein girl
all mixed up
and
mix matched
returning every evening
with fresh wounds to be sewn
from another vain attempt
to be mortal just for a few seconds
before the big fall

little Frankenstein girl
stolen parts
come with stolen lies,
maggots and flies
the gravedigger, looking to make a buck
steals a kiss from her
the moistness quenches her lips
he promises more kisses tomorrow
she scurries home
knowing full well
shes damned to a life of stolen kisses
and malfunctioning  parts
that spit in the moonlight

signing off now with a song for the day...