She had forget-me-not eyes,
sky-blue and very small,
on long, green-leafed stalks.

She had cheeks like roses,
petalled, convoluted, crawling
with large iridescent beetles.

She had skin like cream,
dribbling from her flesh
and flowing into a gooey
white puddle at her feet.

She had golden hair,
but she couldn’t do anything
with it. It bent in her sleep.
Her dandruff glittered.

She had ruby lips, redly
translucent, hard, faceted,
ticking like a raven’s beak
against a dark windowpane
when she spoke. Her words
were sharp, but precious.

Her kisses were like wine.
Men would reel drunken
from her embrace, vomiting
and searching desperately
for a twelve-step program.

She was a red-hot mama:
she brushed against objects
and they ignited. Flames
squabbled at her heels
like ill-behaved children.

She moved like Jello on springs.
All that was left were a pair
of rusted Slinkies, discolored,
sticky, humming with bees.

©2003 F.J. Bergmann

"Perfection" appeared on Tattoo Highway #8

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