Bickering daydreams, covert psychosis,
Down the halls with revolutionary mindless hues
With chains on her bolting lips and limbs,
With her back to the nurses and her gnashing teeth.
As the evening larks drown out the moon, With hourly dosage Seroquel by the hollow tune;
Revered 90’s echo through the intercom,
Battered down by lobotomized mental dorms.
Her plastic gun with silicon bullets, Furnished by her ill talismans and jaded amulets.
The translucent windows… the doctor’s chamber
Vandalized waiting rooms and thrifted graffiti by the pocketful,
Tubes of ventilation tethered to cartilage and leather,
Harvested tears and dust that fogs up the glass
…. They call this Kintsugi, some lineage of an indie artist;
The ceramics crack in the subtle June Latched onto pieces with resin and clay,
Ornamented by laced up prejudice and lustful fray.
The brazen hands loop through sleepless nights,
Of popping ivory tracts of sight;
Persian cataracts with a hint of saline,
Affirmed by years of chiffon alien beams.
Like some brood born for experiments,
The price to pay for her glass-spine half bent,
‘Round the edges of her muslin gown,
Years of distilled commotion about her whereabouts.
Caucasian knuckles bruised from her piano keys,
Playing the same John Denver since the age of hippies;
Back when no one used to drop their antiques,
Just for make believe morals or lousy aesthetics.
They say she’ll be put back like the Frankenstein,
Her shackles liberated from years of being riled.
Against the sham altruist bones,
Once adorned by priceless thrifted rhinestones.
Her moon someday will sedate the brackish warbling larks,
Amongst the demented terracotta and rotting earthen scars;
The nurses’ way of tormenting her bones, the art of kintsugi.