Jean-Marie Poumeyrol, a discovery of the night.
The woman, how she is meat.
Nothing to be used but the true qualities that is hers.
Used by sellers, perhaps.
And dare I mistake that for a dick in the corner, underneath her. Ambiguous as the foreskin to the cultures.
But no, she is still attached. The anus the asshole, perhaps. Meant to be the same thing.
Well, life shines on her. She still stands tall and bold. Albeit not really through her control.
A statue, she is supposed to be. Stand there, hang, effortlessly.
I cannot help but see the unused furnace. He quieted it, did he not? To leave her basking in the sun, enjoying it. The timing is a mystery to me at the moment.
Has she conquered, the sun says? Why is she so abandoned? In a clean but apparently unused state. The setting leaves no dust, in fact, but its remains to be as cluttered as the forgotten attic.
I do not see mice. In fact, there is a mop.
TO clean, to bask her.
Like she is a prize to be displayed. Like they have won her. They are displaying her. But she, too, seems not to mind. She stands boldly, proudly, not drooping like the trapped ambiguous penis-anus that may or may not also be hers.
She holds her head high, quite clear in the morning sun (I say it is morning). Like the day has just begun.
But she has neither a head. That part, you know, somewhat chopped off. Tailored off, to be exact. Is this where all the mutilation remains go?
She almost wears gold on her waist. One is a mother, the other slightly drooping. Both still tall, the left somewhat faltering.
They are proud to be there. And they do not even know it.
Do not even know that they are chained. The thinking head is absent.
But since she is She. She will be She in tightness, in the zipper. Closed up to look pretty.