The women in the quicksand

The women in the quicksand sinking
The quicksand of a lonely home
The home of a pendulum swinging

The women stuck down in the mire
Their feet sucked into its lips
Their hearts beating wildly, their lives dire

The children gather and watch sadly
They ask where is mother going?

There’s nothing but her hand growing
They grab onto it crying and crying

To the studio dancing girl

At first, I liked the pictures
Of the temple dancing girls
Shot in the black and white
Of those times
The temple was a studio
Where the camera prayed
To models in bikinis
For nickels and dimes

She loved the cats and dogs
She gave them light
She’d visit in all weather
Their cradles and their dens
The candles of her body
Would light up the night
With smiling stars
The animals could pretend

The night of the spider
When love is torn apart
I saw her carried off
Into its dark heart
And fighting the web
Like a little boy
I fell asleep exhausted
And quietly began to cry

She Hoods Her Nose with Her Index Finger

 

She hoods her nose with her index finger
And fixes her eyes on the draughts board
She thinks hard and in her heart the tomboy tries
To win every game against the naughty boys

She moves about the board trying different form
The muscles in her fingers are flexed like boxer’s brawn
Her mischievous blue eyes sparkle with serious intent
To beat the foe before her she fights without relent

Then after winning several games of draughts in a row
She calls the winner a looser and the loser a hero