A child-like woman lives in a one bedroom house.

She aimlessly chases the soulmate she knows will complete her

body, a dissident figure battered by fairytale lobbyists.

Her tubes presume pre-production every few dates,

ditzy eggs wave pompoms and wait in the wings,
whispering to winning sperm still yet to come.

“I’m sick of this shit” she streams on Facebook,
drives to Mount Buffalo National Park.

She stops in a clearing, peels her pajamas off clean.

It’s four degrees on her skin and she’s feeling sublime.

Someone is typing, intrigued

by what she might do.

‘Is it art? Should I laugh?
Are you sane? Will you die on your feet?’

She climbs up a tree, a sloth-like selfie,

sings to the stars, a puppy on heat.


“As I strive to speak out to relevant causes alive,

My voice is hogtied inside these vacant thighs.

The apple of my eye is a sphere of maggots,

it rots in my mouth turning
‘dare to fight’ into

‘down to fuck’,  

a downright waste

of basted potential.  

Elders bartered their roots

for my roots, but why…’

As the Livestream cuts
she completes her pathos

to the sky, who replies

“Now is the time to take your life

to the next bloody level.”


The bachelorette