Issue
#3

May
2009 

2 poems by Roberta Lawson

Temp

My fetish for objectification. My odd lust
for self-annihilation. And everyone needs to
make ends meet.

You won't like this if you’re creative, he warns me.
I deny the creativity without thinking--I need the
money, and back-shelve my soul in a second.
Okay, okay, I'm broke. I can be whoever you want.
Plasticine priestess, silly putty seamstress. I'll shift
shape again. You'll see what you want to.

Slow-drip work-self;
brain in the desk-drawer. This time we
objectify my voice.

I become the voice only, bubbly, trilling.
The rote phrases, the switchboard. Finally
I, I don't have to think!

Delicious payment for disengagement.
Black suited to ebb personality
spill-out. I'll be the smile
the middle-aged workers
and bike couriers flirt at
to go with biscuits and tea.
I'll be a function.

I'll be your paperclip.

© Roberta Lawson

Real Doll: Dairy Doll

Twin ice cream mounds
of plump vanilla.
Two glace cherries
Adorning pretty.

Those patent lips.

And her
lipsticked cunt--
rude pillarbox
red.

Inertia, that
inviting mouth.

© Roberta Lawson

 return to top        printer-friendly