Mother The Matchstick Girl Poem by Cecilia MacAleer

My mother before me was one of them;
The new-age-self-inflicted-matchstick-girls
A dragon with French cigarette smoke
Protruding from her nostrils.
Such prospects, such promise, sped
Away through such crevices and extinguished her
Like the wisp she was
And the subtle undertones she aspired
And to which she fanned the flames with
Her spirits strong and raw.

In one aspect like my mother,
I gather up the bottle but instead of drinking
I look to the people of Holland for some guts
And I saunter through that door, uncaring,
Miss Piggy in satin, now where is Kermit the frog?
Two fingers to you Miss Vogue
Kiss my pink bloated backside.