Stanzie on the rocks

with cream

White Russian Stanzie slick

& clean

preparing to breach the clouds

blast the granite cliffs

to diamonds, plunge

into the clear lake

trip or out, crisp sheets only

blinds pulled near her office couch

some afternoon at three - starting

again, with whiskey

whispers dreams

waterslides that she's designed

too steep too fast

too cold

for an empty hotel

that pure clink

of ice into highball glasses

that pure

heavy-headed stanzie the juggernaut

stole a silver ring from the carnival

what a thought

heavy-lidded stanzie who speaks

to strangers, schizophrenics, in tongues

& monster rhymes

coaxing visions from school boys

rocket toys

sick-saddled stanzie suddenly

stuck, her twisted kidneys * gut

on the beige couch

should she sleep now? should she

stanzie on air

stanzie stares

coughing laughing soaked together

always the white halls

always the thick walls, metal detectors

tripping past her shoes, traveling somewhere

sodden, coated with cow dung

stanzie takes an escalator up to the sky

stanzie why

why

stay still

Heroin

it could have hurt more but not for long

instead there will be hurt mixed with euphoria

& periods of relief but it will go on and on

like a slow weane from heroin

& she will beg for an increase,

accept a decrease grudgingly

sick & sappy through the night

then waking sterile,

out, off, done

stanzie, sweetie,

try to speak

stanzie, honey,

slip to sleep

Footloose & fancy
free Stanzie tried to be,
but try trumps free.
In the halls the stream of faces aged & strange
like boysenberries
hung & bursting, she tried
to pick you out, she tried
but there was no you.

There was no me.

In her first year,
In her second year, the locker stuffed with clothes
In her first year, she alone
In her second year, everyone had decorated
In her first year, black piano
In her second year, she dressed
in bones. A little
like stones.

Nomi. Naomi. Dirty girls are going dancing.

he fears he is losing
again stanzie slipping into the mind
of this: logs to stack but trapped
behind a plastic tray picking bugs
from the sky: where is that man
who had the key? why won't he unlock me?

he pictures you, bright in the morning, slipping
dimly into midnight like a sodden sun

not curious any longer, but driven down
his sweet stanzie strange & long forgotten,
standing in the doorway or her shadow
standing, turning round, another scrap of shrapnel
caught in the cyclone.

My baby, he says I looks good, that is all that matters.

I have a pink scarf from the Sheep Farm.

I was a cute bare-nippled blonde girl once, with pigtails.

I was Bridget Jones.

I lolls about, the bridges.

I talk about trolls.

I wonder what fairy tale next will come, picturing horses.