KANEKO FUMIKO…SHE BREATHES JUST LIKE ME
I am too delicious like the rotting apple right beside me
I bleed onto my bedside table to prove to the enslaved farmers before me
That there is not one road to consumption
I exist cramped in a tiny bedroom with a towering man
Sleeping with no boxers to the left of me
I listen to his fraudulent heartbeat echo inside his hollow body
As his hairy legs swipe against mine like windshield wipers.
And he complains in his sleep…
He does not love me,
He says I am too vulgar.
He swears my blemished mind should be smudged out with a wet thumb
Like a bare breasted woman on the television,
I should be horrified of liberation,
And quiet hopes for a life more relaxing than a massage
In a five star resort on a stolen island…
Leaving him takes keys and a love for urban noise
Limping barefoot
(naked, scratched thighs bleeding, side of the road)
I cannot forever lay matted together with a body
That only loves on me when I am spitting
…
I rethink the mirrors that duplicate my distorted self:
A lone, fuckoff of a girl
Bite-sized and unbelievable like the harvest moon
In the hands of a softened deity.
I am Ms. No-love-reject-emotion
I wear chunky legs and dissatisfaction at the tip of my tongue
Like my mother, Mrs. No-love-reject-emotion
Brain sore from having my past beat on
With police bats
Like the door of a narcotics kingpin,
Backed into a wolf spider infested corner.
My frame is slathered in oily finger grease
And tiny scratches provided by
Petite silver needles and prickly nails
I view the doomed universe alone
Like a widow on her sorrowful walk
To a Tuesday afternoon funeral
Slow feet, intestine pink, teary eyes as she begs
To jump down the plot with him
…
I yell through my boiling tears like an enraged God
As I see my body sliced open on national/ist news
Not mortified by my pinky-red guts
Covering the streetside like beaded necklaces after Mardi Gras
But saddened that they never cared to fill me up
With yesterday morning’s newspaper
I am left like a pitbull that donned fury eyes one night…
I am left like an illegitimate newborn daughter on a doorstep…
But no body treats me better
no body.
…
I become unhinged
“Insane, anarchist woman with a fatal mission”
I question why I should live life peacefully
While a fascist holds a gun in my back.
While the CEO in front of me
Tries to shove grimy pennies up my nose.
I am “relentless” like a wildfire
Creeping up on lavish mansions in W. Hollywood
I am “violent” like a beauty pageant dressing room
I am “unsavory” like a young girl spitting up her undercooked chicken fingers.
…
No proper home built for
Les Femmes Violentes
Only prisons where we fight for sanitation
And the right to eat half a stale sandwich once a day
I am chained to a passive ghost
Under a leaky, molding ceiling in a drafty box cell
Bigger than my vulgar little self
Stolen from my human form ...
And the doll head I once preached under.
The former self:
A well kept young woman to fetishize,
A full, soft red pout
A narrow waist that does not make men puke,
A head with no thoughts on the oppressed who burn,
A fluttery heart that controls my taste
For grimy lovers.
My ashy foot in rusty, iron chains,
I hold my ground
With not much room to stand
I stretch my neck:
I spit in the face of guards,
The colonized God,
The faux fair emperor.