MAUDLIN MAWS▪︎Poetry (3)

44. They of me

Battered, they sit one by one combing the creases of their hair
Greased in tuft of blackened tresses
Writhed in spourts of oils and forbiddance
That keep eye-sighted splendor salved from despond's fulgor.
They stifled;
Sit on their vanity parlor
A sliced piece of bluished mulberry fig waits, percolates
in their mother's senescent ceramics
Wrinkeling downward on its utmost epicarp limb
The fruit comes to vespers
Purling down the goos wasted with viscous resent
Now the mug put_bleeding from beneath
They show themselves as a singular darling
A prime fawn, vanilla fed on the stand
The hair pin-slicked as they blare through her self-made sarcophagus
Let us be
Shasing a vision of standing foursquare;
The mane ebony black_at liberty w
Windswept, a manifold she

2/6/2023