Open me up

and rest your eyes on the terrible celibate;

the reptile bleached with a solar Scandinavia,

grinning metallic and framing a future fast.

She plays each part as faithful as a bad memory

and everything is stained, Spiro graphed into nuisance,

and is plaque.

They are living not for you but for everyone to view

the ceremony with rooftop distorted

and talking about magpies, leaving organic sentiments behind,

they switch the Mother Historic.

Why are brides like Frankensteins? Secret societies of make up and mourning -

they park outside of everything like a dead museum

parting their eyes forward for reward and men, stiff as a march,

leap onto the mimeographs and flick.

Click, mostly surrounding chemicals, and snip-snip,

a brave gardener leaves it untended.