They enter the skin of painted leopards
to reveal mysteries, voodoo magic.
Then they gaze at the world from broken constellations,
sitting directly across temptation
and tittle-tattle about retiring in style.
She looks for her dealer,
keeping a vigilant eye on Icarus
ready to escape into exile.
Suddenly she’s one
with the concrete.
She doesn’t want to be a calendar queen.
She wants to be a doll and spend her day in silence.
She has body art;
cranes floating through pines,
lustrous yellow leaves.
She was happy to bend, raise her hand on camera,
but the silicon made her sick.
Now she swims silently in heaven with a blue mantis,
sings praises to her king.
Nothing shocks anyone anymore. Callous is the fad.
It is no wonder some end up living on the street.
Ten million baby girls swallow sand every decade
before their first scream while Barbie plays
with medical technology.
She started her career collecting porno
hanging it in her bedroom. She’s a woman of gold,
a character from a Joaquin Sabina song; Barbie Super Star.
When night is weighty with desolation
When her voice leaves me untouched
When I hunger for at least one reprimand
she stops begging
When the sky forces her lips to lose the smile
When I glare at the portrait of her parting life
Did I ever have a real friend?