Exotic Alice’s Hypocrisy.

Every one who ever tried her
held their breath when led beside her;
for she makes out like a widow spider
only selected souls ever survive her.
She pushes and pulls and
crushes and fools,
through the nights she rocks and rules,
though all her songs have the power to move,
her caustic words mortally wound.
I learned it was a mockery
allowing her exotic hypocrisy to last.

In polity, she lolls and wallows
her nemeses all curse yet follow;
her ascendancy is revered and hallowed
but she can’t see deep into the shadows.
Yet still she casts an arc of blinding white
and stands to laugh as brothers fight
for scraps of love; are puckered lips
ever enough?

It never is.
’tis only ever mockery
allowing such evocative hypocrisy to last.

She can whisper like an angel but
is lacking grace and passion
both her shrieking and her sweet-talk
sound like mighty cymbals crashing.
She says she fathoms every mystery,
moulds everything in history
and when she’s lying next to me,
her kisses suck the life from me.
She’s neither patient, nor protective,
not kind nor peacefully reflective.
She records all guilt and innocence
in her soul that’s self-directed, and
she’s much too easily roused by her
chaotic, sick perspective –
to accept her onus is to nurture,
not exploit or be vindictive.
It’s such a blatant mockery
allowing her erotic hypocrisy to last.

No faith to swear by any gods
and aware there’s no salvation,
she flays against the odds
indifferent about her reputation,
accepting curses and damnation,
living brief, corrupt sensations
while pretending ministration
to folk like you and me.
And here’s another grubby fantasy
that fulfills her expectations,
as she falls onto her knees
to fellate with great conviction –
then in that pose she pleads,
bringing wild imagination
to the legends she narrates
which display a diorama
of her as victim/hero in a drama
where the world and all that’s in it
plot and scheme, complicit
in some strategy to bleed her
of her blamelessness,
leave her without witnesses
to her pretty, perfect princess-ness.
‘tis just a senseless mockery
allowing such hypocrisy to last..

Now she ignores offending cicatrix
from all the wounds that she inflicts;
upon the innocent; and everybody else.
I see the flaws and imperfections.
I was just one other indiscretion
which was locked into the vault
then left for quiet entropy
ignoring hurt, avoiding fault.

Despite her gift of prophecy
my vital essence she won’t see,
I’m wasted by her use of me,
screwed completely and most royally,
I’m now shriveled in her company;
it’s mockery and pretense

and I’m aghast,
allowing such elaborate hypocrisy to last.

“But I don’t want to go among the mad”
said Alice.
“Oh, you can’t help that,” replied the cat.
“Coz here, we are all mad.”