If The Dress Fits

This is a dress fit for a princess
But she must be mad
And have no concept of beauty
At least that surface beauty
But below the skin she will be a masterpiece of muscle
A tantalising, titillating tale of tissue
An outrageous oracle of organs.

In this dress she will dance a devil’s jig on the roof of a church
Screaming pagan curses to the sky
She will spin and cause a hurricane of splinters
Drill straight through the roof and into the ground
Down to the centre of the earth.

In this dress she will meet a million men
And charm them all with a conman’s smile
But then leave them, hypnotised on the side of the road
Prey for truck drivers and travelling salesmen
She’s part of the balance here
A number in every equation.

In this dress she will light fires in your cornfields
And spray paint dreams on your fences
Running from police and those who seek to hold her
Because this is a dress fit for a princess
But the dress is chaos,
And so is she.




So begins Personal Poetry Challenge Week in which I see how much (at least mediocre) poetry I can produce in five days...