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Ingenue
It was one hell of a play, you know.
Hero and heroine
cast to fit a look, a glance, a crabwise
creep after sense and meaning. Poor fools.
Knew not the gist that waited
in the wings; a crab indeed.
Cruel claws, segmented stalk
waving in the ether: shrill signals sent, that
burrow indeed. My carcinomic angel,
riot of cells. A wilding gaggle
drools pavementwise, not replete.
I’ll have your guts for brunch, if you please.
On toast, with marmalade.
Oh, she drowned. Her garments,
fir for an ingénue, to be sure,
float winglike in the waters. Down they
go, and she down with them.
Angel in the mud. No curtain call
for you, dear one. And on the catwalks,
Hamlet smirks in silence.
Win one for the Gipper.