The Burnt-Out Spa

“It is not I, it is not I!”
—Sylvia Plath,
The Burnt-out Spa

An old queen ended in this place—
Miss Thing of rotting wood, rusty teeth

Pale blue vitreous oozing stuff—
Sick sticky resin outta the bark

The rafters and struts overhead—
Silent and aloof as some old Chartres

How long has this poor old queen—
Been foundering here in the rubbish?

See how the little weeds insinuate—
Soft suede tongues between her toes

Her tacky toppled coiffure wig—
A shameless esplanade for crickets

I pick and pry like a nosy doctor—
Doing an autopsy among the ruins

Enamel entrails, beggar bowls—
The pipe & hookah that ruined her

The pizza delivered by the cute kid—
The vodka bottles scattering the floor

Cleaning up the mess she left—
Her gimpy Revlon mushy lips

It all flows into a tragic picture—
Balustrade of a saggy has-been

Once so gracious and austere—
Seated on her stylish chic throne

Seated beneath her the cute—
Entourage of chicken boss cupids

Spoiled rotten by her wealth—
And streaming hustler generosity

So many grew spoiled here—
At the doorstep of her lewd spa

Straining, staining, spraining—
The jizz-jets of youthful desire

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