joan of arc.
sexy smoker
(smoking on the stake)
arret! (i would cry)(she did not)
human cigarette :(
gold-veined,magic-hearted—
is that a girl to you?
are my farts rosy and my burps melodic?
will you write poems about how my hair
falls to the ground like gravity is a joke?
will you paint me as though my skin was pure porcelain?
do you love me because i’m perfect in your eyes?
does reality startle you?
(it startles me too)
joan is a woman like me.
homeward is a direction she will never go.
she wants to die a hero,
sweaty and bloody and stained with passion.
she doesn’t wash her hair and pays no attention to her scent.
when i drench myself in perfume each morning i apologize to her—
JOAN
she spoke a peasant’s french and made the pope bite his dusty tongue
i’m sick of your poetry about girls who brush 100 strokes each night
whose tender hearts have never been cruel
(i’m very cruel)
i refuse to be your mental pin-up,
who lacks everything
but adoration for you.
broke bastard you can stop writing about me.
put your damn easel away.
if im a muse it is not to you—
don’t act like you get me.
the figure gazes
out engaging the viewer
don’t mistake this contempt
for communique