New poem to celebrate the working blog. Oh yeah.
The General
for Henry Darger
Little girls, everywhere,
tearing, ripping, soiling their pink frocks,
turning into snails. They run from this side
of the page to that,
stepping on their oversized butterfly wings,
squealing.
Pursued by huge poppies or red
-faced soliders,
they shriek and squeal and laugh and hang.
Little girls, everywhere,
their purple faces, dying,
naked chests full of punctuation
and watercolor,
with their candy corn and bayonets.
Little girls, everywhere,
colored like angels or ducklings,
the daughters of a bearded god
with hands and eyes constantly
tracing little girls,
his mouth full of hearts and swords,
full of little girls, everywhere.
