good china

You’re a cupie-prize
And you know what?
I’m just the guy
To win you.
 
Doesn’t seem to be
Alot of other players,
Does there?
Where’s the line?
What?
I’m the only one?
In years?
Funny thing.
 
It’s easy to see why though,
You’re china…
Good China.
Unscarred by
Use and abuse.
It’s almost a curse isn’t it?
To be the one everyone looks at
At every party, every shopping mall,
Every en vogue dance club.
To again and again be put up
On a pedistal,
Or in a cabinet,
On display.
 
So perfectly preserved
That your heart suffocates
Behind a glass case.
Quarantine-safe from the
Clumsy, ugly hands
Of ordinary people,
Who stare and salivate,
But never talk to you
Or touch you
Because you’re too beautiful.
They know they might nick you or chip you
Or make you crack.
 
Everybody knows
That once Good China has been damaged
No glue can hide the scar.
It has to be thrown out
With the bananna peels,
Coffee grounds,
And scraped chili cans.
And they don’t want that.
It’s too hard a thing to do.
That’s not the proper way
To get rid of something that was once,
So lovely.
 
Instead they look,
And they drool,
And they do the one thing their mother’s taught them,
They don’t touch the “Good China.”
 
But I’m different.
I know what you want.
You want to be shattered into a million pieces,
Cradled in my palms,
My fists to grip your
Fresh jagged edges.
My warm dark blood
To trickle down your broken porcelain smile,
And you want to leave those little flakes
Burrowed deep inside me
So that even after I’ve swept your
Tainted broken body under the carpet
You’ll still be there
To make me itch.

 

BD 1993

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