A fool for love (4/28/97)

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Ken addresses Barbie, in the pose of the melancholy lover:


Were there a thought within this empty head
It would be you: your buff-blonde fashionings
Improbable — your form, your stylish things
That fit you for the hunt, the ball, the bed.
I’d fall on you like existential dread
Tear off your several outfits, yank your strings
And bunnyhumping bust the mattress springs.
But surfaces deceive. Within we’re dead.
And void. Our plastic eyes mold vacant stares
Nor beat within these silent plastic hearts.
No plastic fingers run through plastic hairs
Nor plastic organs try the plastic arts.
One cipher to another, out of sight:
As nothing is to nothing, nothing’s right.

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High colonic, low ebonic (3/28/97)