she wore nothing
but a spoon in her ear
and a fork around her leg…
stainless steel hanging
as an earring from the lobe,
dangling with a string
of brilliant pearls —
and the fork, twisted silver,
a garter to hug her precious
thigh, walking tall,
head held high,
down a runway
of pure imagination,
with loss of self-consciousness
being her one and only goal…
free to fall and free to fail,
and eyes fixed on a fiery horizon,
no line to mark her start
and no way to chart a destination
a truth so nude, they said,
and they gasped at the implication —
cutlery does not count as clothes,
but it does not even matter…
the fashion show will carry on,
despite the lack of textiles
and all the nonsense
we’ve come to take for granted…
we bring what we cannot leave behind
on our path to make something
of ourselves — to stamp our legacy
in the minds of others takes
an unfathomable flare
and a certain disinhibition,
where we wear only the accessories
of time!
we shape our Eden as we see it —
no Adam, no Eve,
no snakes — only sprawling vines
and luscious leaves
and sand
to cover our wild intentions…
she envisions it as so: in the future
we will all wear cutlery as clothes,
and your spoons and forks
and knives and such,
will gleam so vivid against
your star-soaked skin,
that the gods will be blinded
and will forgive us all our human vice
and look pass our every mortal sin
Garbage Notes:
Without much context to ground this, I’m sure this poem makes little sense. Cutlery as clothes? Like, wtf.