On a Modern Maiden Most Fair
With pants so tight I don't know
how blood gets from top to bottom
and back again. I mean it,
I really don't see how your
sultry knees bend more than two degrees.
I'm near one-hundred percent certain
you stood behind a curtain
and pranced in a tub of India Ink,
or doused yourself in latex-free paint.
And your shoes! My god your shoes.
You took the term 'stiletto' and ran
off with it. Those heels haven't seen
the light of day since renaissance Italy,
since literal cloak and dagger play.
Blacker than the night when all the stars have died,
with imitation rhinestones to remind us
how those heavenly bodies used to twinkle.
And you jingle! With every stabbing step
you take across the floor, distracting me
from wondering how your feet don't sink.
You've got more fake gold than a Ralex vendor,
more fake gems than a bedazzler gone wild.
It's amazing you can even lift those
arm-like sticks hanging from your shoulders.
And the only thing sharper
than your weaponized footwear has to be
the embarrassed-red nails on the end of your skeletal fingers.
How you got in here armed to the teeth is,
to put it simply, far beyond me.
Your hair is a hayfield
in the middle of a monsoon, a wind-blown
strand damn near obliterated my eye from across the room.
What a black and tangled mess nests
above your head, I bet
even Medusa would fill with dread.
I'm not sure what else to say,
other than it must be uncomfortable, having
an octopus orgy raging above your brow.
Looking at you I now understand why
Picasso stopped his brush.
You stole all of his paints and threw them
on your face in a way so haphazard
a haz-mat team is on their way.
Your eyes are bluer than
that clue-seeking dog. And your lips,
oh those lips, are two Hindenbergs in bloom.
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