Rebecca Black

Mephista among the Surrealists

Claudie sweetens

your tea with little

packets of malice

while you entertain

on the harmonica.

Bellmer the marionettist

imagines you shaped

by his lathe, continues

to cathect.  Minor

poets sentence you

to death.

If I’d been there,

baby, I’d trade my hips

for your brain while

the spoons rose up

against the pans.  Laud-

enaumed as a god,

strung out as a puppet,

someone (Rrose

probably) said

you didn’t fit in,

like a false leg.

It was then that you

first felt shame,

and ran up fallopian

stairs leading nowhere

to arrive in my arms,

gasping that there seemed

no end to pain.

“To Pleasure,” I said.