Did not perish at 40, published.

In Rain Bird: "Ho'opū 'iwa: A Journey into the Creepy, Freaky, and Frightening Realms of Hawai'i"

Candy from a Baby

When Candy the blow-up doll
wakes up
every thing hurts.
Her plastic pleasing precious orifices
(cubbyholes to hold cock curios, meat mementos)
are sandpaper-edged from so much friction from so much action
without so much love easing the entry of Him, and Him and Him
. . . and Him.

It is a mess
this slim skin she is in:
patches of His dried ignorance
spots of His crusty lust
bits of His scaly lies flaking off into her plastic pretty matted hair.
Ah, my hair must look an awful mess, she fusses
Oh, I'll need to fix my makeup, she frets
her lipstick the hardest hit
by the mass of hurried, harried passersby
eager to get easy and quick into their deep destination.

She tries to sit up but cannot:
she has no joints
only soft stretchy plastic places hold her together,
her parts are spread wide open, limbs positioned at the ready, eveready
and her bones are merely some body else's breath.
Who could rise and stand on that?

Yet this time (one, two, too many times)
she was rubbed too thin, pricked too deep
and she comes undone with a sigh of stale air.
With a plastic hiss she flies through the room
bumping into things at first:
she hits the wall, cracks the cheap mirror hung there
grazes her butt on the stucco'd ceiling
and gets sucked into the dusty fan blades
pushed head over tail, stuck in their eddy until a hard gust blows her free.
She ricochets off the picture window
and strafes over his head, knocking him back on the unmade bed
his legs splayed open
his mouth a deep round hole of surprise.

In the corner she comes to rest
limp, loose, and without shape but
no longer pliable
no longer hollow
now every thing that had come in was expelled out.


Copyright 2011, [redacted for privacy] "growlinghandsdeviantart"