The Mistresses of Disembodiment

Someone cut my feet off.

Robbed me of my nails and armoury.

Dressed me in cloth that rubs against my skin.

A tender voice, not my own, was forced into my throat.


It sits there like a turtle.

Cantankerous about the revolt below.

The rope coughing up and down.

My hair too tight around my body.


Somebody cursed who I was.

Somebody abhorred the sight.

Of a child putting up a fight.

The solitude of her, the spirit let loose.


Evoking one too many figures, silhouettes.

Nothing graspable yet.

And as she tries not to wither,

She closes her eyes and feels who she is.


Madonna, you won’t touch me.

Madonna, you are carving no more.

Unholy face, too many hands to misguide,

I won’t listen to the prayers that the devil himself has created,

And you regurgitate, I’ll grab my carapace and hold it up to you.


“Portrait einer jungen Frau” by Eduard Veith (1858-1925)

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