My hair is a woman,
promiscuous and independent.

My hair is a girl,
sombre and feeble.

My hair is a one-eyed hawk,
rational and cunning.

My hair is tied to a blackboard of chalk.
Thick white lines which borderline
the cult of a shock,
stomping on Marie’s door; a pale white
airy fleet of strings dangling. Smock
coloured cured smiles,
shaping bright bronze flames,
moulded into mahogany nails,
which screech and crease,
the forebrain of wars and wails,
that amount to none but a silver niece.

Burn my hair with the ashes you have retrieved.
My crimson pupil and my disgusting pack,
kite clue of bitter cries,
to rosy ponds of rosy lies:
they all beg for a tragedy,
but the impact is obscured,
in the creature’s cold hair,
mortified in tradition.
Beware, beware.