Law is a too tight corset, oozing with our muffin tops.
Try to throw it away, and you are clothed with chains.
Wear it, pretending ti fits and you are a sheep among crowing, cowed sheep in lumpy, bumpy clothes, adoring and praising the emperor for his inspired lumpy, bumpy attire.
Cinched tight, the corset pleases, giving us sleek, hourglass curves, hiding our greed and excess, our open sores, our wastelands, our gasping breath..
Cinched tightly in corsets we dance until dawn, such pretty pretty dancing. The children have all gone to bed.
Many were the ones to help you into your finery, your too tight corset.
When the music stops , you are alone, afraid .
The corset has grown into your flesh.
A cockroach crawls out of your bosom and laughs.
You pray for angels with scissors... or not.
Just as often we give our cockroaches pretty corsets and pretty names and keep them as pretty pets. We whirl dreamily, reliving our dances 'til dawn, wearing our festering corsets like skin, dreaming of our next designer gown.
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