Yorkshire Killer

Yorkshire Killer
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“Molding onto his lips like lies,
Complicating his features.
—Sylvia Plath, “Stings,”
The Collected Poems
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Bare-assed, rooster combed—
The man with lying smiles
Caught bare-handed
His cheesy paws so neat & sweet

It is almost over—
I no longer have any control
Here is my honey-machine
I’m such an industrious virgin
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Here I am getting old—
Always fucking without thinking
My wings torn & worn out
Is there any queen left at all?

Pussy rubbed of its plush—
Poor and bare and unqueenly
Perhaps even shameful
He simply hates me
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Once a miraculous lover—
Now he's just an old honey-sucker
I've seen his strangeness evaporate
Now he's just full of lies

Sour creaming Tart—
Scouring the back alleys
The queen bees are watching
The bee-sitters are impatient
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Here is his slipper—
There are his dirty shorts
Not a square of white linen
He wears everything out

The bitch goddess knows—
Bored with the world so fruity
The queens have found him out
Assia and him in the Hillman
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I doubt if death is worth it—
I have plenty of time to recover
I need a quickie face-lift
Like Dido that bitch

Now I’m getting away—
Faster than ever before
Away from my Yorkshire Killer
Mytholmroyd Mausoleum Man