Nostalgia
For Sylvia Plath
More alive somehow
In my child’s imagination.
The same imagination
That makes me fear
Linda Blair’s make-up.
Demon-touch lust:
Let’s fuck.
A mannish take on play.
She always gives way,
My victim’s twin sister.
Every mannequin kissed
Alive in my childish imagination.
The same imagination
That drove me to love
My victim’s twin. Sisters.
Fucked over distance
Without choice,
Without noise,
Save infant screams of protest.
Shall I continue?
I’m wed to the metonym.
These childhood acts of adult actions…
Bless him. Forgive him. But leave him
His toy. That imagination needs not.
-Unseen Flirtations
Unseen Flirtations 