Reanimated Lavender Granola Switchblade Nun rides again.

Saturday, July 24, 2021

PlasticHead


PlasticHead, Our Weeping Lady of Sorrows,
does not see herself in mirrors.
Like a tortoise, drug addict, or victim of a head injury,
her protective helmet lets in nonsense, 
but does not eliminate it.

PlasticHead therefore believes herself a kind of shithead,
her mind a terrarium made of one-way glass.
Her parents hand her texts substantiating this,
wrongheaded maxims, ill-timed remarks and iffy teachings.
Playmates bash her plastic head on the sidewalk.

Enter alcohol, religion, relationships.

Tossed up on the shore of adulthood, 
PlasticHead looks back and sees the smoking pile-up of her various endeavors.
It's all been a lie. 

PlasticHead, manufactured plaything of Heaven,
find angels in the pockets of your apron.
The molded face that took the place of your true visage
was nothing but assigned artifice, fiction, dressage.

PlasticHead reacts with cold anger, freezing herself solid,
thus further and finally shattering the hated doll head.
Her mosquito-pond blood reddens and warms,
evaporating her tears into a silver fog--she breathes herself in,
embraces the Divine like a gator wrestler, 
sleeps well for once,  lives another ten minutes victoriously,

then expires.

PlasticHead, inspirational story to finish the broadcast,
you have no weepy present, no golden future, no awful past.
Be absorbed into the One Mind, The Magnificent Place,
regard in a Mirror of Stars, your true, your perfect, absolutely front-page Face.
_________________

For The Sunday Muse #170, where I am hosting the masked ball.


15 comments:

  1. Dressage! You are mistress of the perfect word, Shay, and this is full of them, from the opening setting up stanzas' "smoking pile-up" to the interjections as if from a higher being, plaintively comforting like a sad country song after a few too many pitchers. I especially love the 'mosquito-pond blood' and gator wrestling, so contrapuntal to the foggy silver soul inside that plastic head victoriously smashed and replaced. And yes, we have written about much the same thing, tho I can't claim to have gotten as many perfect hits with mine. Great and heady stuff, especially the finish.

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  2. Shay you are a champion of the misled and misguided here. I enjoyed reading every word of it.

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  3. I feel like you have described many a lost soul I have come across. This is powerful in all the imagery and visions painted in words to grab a reader and send them reeling onward. You truly pull us into another haunted space. Brilliant as always my friend!

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  4. That all is... so... cool. There is no linear way to say how interesting this is. A mosh-pit writhing dance frenzy of mosquito-pond blood and gator wrestling, with the yawning chasm of alcohol, religion, relationships for good measure.

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  5. Between your imagination and your reach as a poet and wordsmith extraordinaire, i am grateful to have been reading you for 11 years. Eleven years and not one poem less than stellar. Wow.

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  6. Your word mastery is stunning, and your story telling par excellence. pulling no stops.

    "lives another ten minutes victoriously,
    then expires."

    Those lines for me were a breathtaking surprise in the narrative

    Happy Sunday
    Muchđź’ślove

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  7. that first verse especially brilliant - deserves to be sung

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  8. My mind soaks up your words like a hungry sponge, until they form a battalion of understanding, and I feel them ascend to a different level of consciousness... ♥

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  9. 'The molded face that took the place of your true visage was nothing but assigned artifice, fiction, dressage.' How many of us exist in this realm ... your poetry rings true this Sunday Muse Morning. Sigh.

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  10. What trauma we walk as plastic faced dolls. This is powerful, has much I identify with. Answers pour from nothing tongues to mold us into what they wish. As always I am awed (jealous) of your incredible talent with words.

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  11. Wow, what a journey for Plastic Head, and not completely unfamiliar. “PlasticHead therefore believes herself a kind of shithead,
    her mind a terrarium made of one-way glass.
    Her parents hand her texts substantiating this,”
    Change the gender of the pronouns Shay, and change “parents” to “mother”, and I can definitely relate — it was my childhood after the orphanage.

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  12. The thing that struck me was
    "Her parents hand her texts substantiating this,
    wrongheaded maxims, ill-timed remarks and iffy teachings."
    I was just wondering if I had texted the wrong thing, not enough of the right thing, or if my not texting more was brushing off my adult child's issue. Parents mean well, we just don't know what to say, and may not say anything for fear of it being wrong. At the wrong time. "Iffy teachings" is a great phrase!

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  13. I cannot say enough good words of praise, so I'll just say,
    I am blown away by your creativity.

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Spirit, what do you wish to tell us?