The Surrealist Woman Poem by Sheena Blackhall

She has cockroach lips
Wet as lickspittle
Her tongue is a loaded dice
Her teeth are plugs from the Dorian fruit
Her womb is s rotting harbour
Many ships have foundered there
Her blood is hourglass sand
At noon and midnight she stands on her head

There are mermaid's purses
Hanging under her eyes
Her dress is a patchwork of litter
Her hair is a fizz of bluebottles
Her cleavage is deep as an Artic crack
Her breasts are two plucked hens
Their beaks are her nipples
Her body's a taxidermist's nightmare
Burst springs and sagging plush
She tiptoes round the abyss of the 21sr century
Her voice is a frog's croak
She whips your certainties until they bleed