Betty Doyle

Betty Doyle Poems

The Best Poem Of Betty Doyle

Maps

She was outre; she was just perfect that way.
No longer a stillborn, never a glamerous stray.
In the arms of a Nordic princess, a mannequin named Zero.
Who had been through a dozen-he was her latest ubiquitous hero.

You ask of her reason, yet it still remains ulterior.
In comparison to her previous, it seems so inferior.
From the perspective of a genius, she owed us nothing.
And from those glaring pebbles it was a waste of a coffin.

And after three heads have rolled, it ceases to be unequivocal.
Disquieting, ungodly-from the calf to the umbilical.
A peppermint swanboat circumnavitages her portrait head.
The diamond, the rock and marble, until she was dead.

A chisel and trowel: moist blossoms shoot from her navel.
Upon finding the note it became a terrible fable.
The ripest apple seed was planted firmly in the ground.
But the fruit withered and turned tested and brown.

The crushing glass shell in her dreams, I must have found a dozen each.
Under a paper parasol in Paris; spread across an immitation beach.
Even the king, the jester and his lowly scout boy;
Must drip with acid and face this wonderless ploy.

The world was flat in her twisted mind.
It was a sheet, and she was trapped inside.
Through those certain orbs, exsistence is a blood-drenched map.
Colourless and gray-she could never love something so drab.

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