Cockatoo Mask

When you are very isolated or alone, you have this tremendous longing for communication, and also this strong desire to communicate through the body.” – Rebecca Horn


Cockatoo feathers enclose her face,
Enveloping her visage, concealing the base

Desires that lie beneath. She is swollen.
Her legs are in pieces about the room, broken.

An invisible itch formicates her isolated body,
From a sterile view, she searches for some sort of copy

Of substance, purpose and verve.
Unluckily, this bitch doesn’t have the nerve.

She is ill; cancer strokes her lungs, rashes hug her epidermis.
Fractured ribs, dismembered limbs, flesh so worthless.

This plumy mask eclipsing her lame body and mazy soul
residual memories coloured in with charcoal.

Metal and felt garnish her disposition.
It is through monologues of admonition

She understand her limits, staring them in the eyeball,
In dangerous repetition, within these stiffened cell walls.

Comparing her condition to Rebecca Horn’s,
She clips her own hair with a scalpel, a sheep shorn.

But she cannot be a sheep, her innocence lost.
The electrical wiring of her sanity: crisscrossed.

Now watch the manic baby, be careful around her,
Bite the bitch black – she will purr

Again. She is a bad actress pantomiming pain,
Her feathers are protecting her, she cannot feel a thing.

People say that she once let someone into her chasm
With worm-eaten perversion, he induced her chronic seizing spasms.

He kissed her and rotten teeth fell into her mouth.
She kept quiet, when he was not looking and spit them out.

Currently, a peni-less little pathetic victim!
I wonder if her vulnerability was an early symptom

Of all these pathetic fucked up physical ailments
Perhaps just a contributing element,

To her wretched state, somebody start donating to this charity case!
Bills will dissolve her in her hospital bed, a true disgrace.

Indebted women will make the world burn.
The men outside wait for her return.

She seats them atop of her mind’s monolith,
But she’d rather slice them with a scythe.

A corporeal reality cursed with disease
Her life is an impotent strip tease.



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