Masked Woman At A Poetry Reading - Poem by David Kowalczyk
An ache in her gut,
her faith in existentialism
more numb than lost,
she clings to the romantic fantasy
that Lacan is her biological father.
Louis Lacan, Jaques Lacan,
any Lacan will do.
She is emaciated, possibly anorexic,
and addicted to migraines.
Her face is adrift with pain.
Salt spills from her nostrils.
She labels herself 'a closet Luddite',
yet spends twelve hours a day
on the internet. She can only
achieve orgasm in graveyards.
Her type is common.
Some would say generic.
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Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You