Written: July 30th, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Seth Pina
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Your very skeleton
is not spun from cotton and polyester.
No, it is not carved from wood,
nor forged from metal or steel.
Its substance is—nerve endings,
tissue, and blood—
circulatory systems,
bound,
but not from woven fabric.
A lethal lotus languishes,
lamenting in its limbo,
crouched on bended knee.
A curved carcass, prostrate
beneath time’s passing wheel.
Its chalk-white bones
measure the slow decay,
where darkness lingers
in the hollow space within.
Cyborg of a cyber-skeleton.
Coiled with a steel-stitch
sprocket of subjugation.
Its spinal cord, bound in circuitry,
hums with sorrow.
A crestfallen cranium,
a heavy, hollowed
moon-orb weighed down
by the gravity of grief
in synthesized solitude.
Amidst this woeful wheel,
supplications of skinless steel
fuse forgotten fragility and fortitude
into a fatalistic future.
For you were neither tool nor tree,
but a tight-furled tapestry of flesh—
a weeping engine, bound in bone,
where the wild pulse fights the gear,
and slowly fades to rust.
I can’t get out of bed
that drink went to my head
will I lose my job today and become famous instead?
There’s spots sprawled on my skin
I’m not looking thin
competition for exhaustion, that’s the one I’ll win
There’s someone on my case
friends forget my face
I think they’re tired of me and my a thousand states
I need a new job because this can’t be all there is
there’s a boy over there, who wishes I were his
I hate what’s in my wardrobe
I have nothing to wear
I’ve had this job for more than two years
yet I still wake up scared
I complain about my status
like I don’t run away
from actually being liked, from people who will stay
I change my hair colour like it’s really a fresh start
I trade my problems for polyester when I press add to cart
I’m volatile and dangerous
I’m soft and I’m too kind
I’m forever chasing myself when it’s myself I can’t find
I don't want to be a processed human
warm thumpads on click screen
cant put my hands in my pcokets
pockets filled with sand
cup of dirt by my table
Orange fire tree, a beauty, shivers in gray
I am not aware of me
when nature bears to see its swaying leaves
there's glory in the metal squeak of a guitar string
feel dead wood, relief, plastic wrapped child roses
Smell the green on harvested before bloom
The blood crust on my ear
monstrous scratching between straw hair of a dead scalp makes me want to rip skin out
Ocean water take me there but i hear electric of cars every step
bushes square
trees baby leaves
bloomed too late to turn green
Watch a movie set in italy you feel the vibrations of the screen
make your face red; silent scream
pop ups, plastic warmth
cling to the radiator through polyester, spine compressed and half your bed taken by an amass of wires and clunk: heavy mess to project reality
My veins pump blood spray when cut
I'm a real human transmitting consciousness through things i never knew
drained my energy in this scry mirror: to be human is selfish, AI helps with all but takes root to steal yourself and sell it back to you
Must pester Uncle Fester our national jester
Mr dome chrome time to buy another home?
Property cartels fed cahoots loots free to roam
Like we’re being led by the laughing gnome
Coalition behind demolition of OG ancestor
Don’t let it fester about every oversea investor
Cannot cotton on to what’s wrong.. polyester
Kiwis remember embers of being a protestor
They were told awhile before the war make sure
To stockpile fossil fuels.. because more is more
They wouldn’t listen Oil companies shares glisten
Billionaire backed..society cracked or is it fracked
Fast tracked as guess who gets whacked the Poor!
Luxon adoring every glutton pushes that button
Haughty and naughty lies flies in roaring forties
Ignoring us imploring see the nexus of the exodus
As its lambs to the slaughter on the isles of mutton
Wear the green dress today
in the back of the closet.
The floor-length polyester blend
with little bicycles
peddling all over it.
Your kindergarteners
love to count the bicycles
as much as I do.
One, two, three, four
five, six, seven, eight,
(and turn around for more)
nine, ten, eleven, twelve
little bicycles.
I woke up early
to press the wrinkles out,
thinking of your freckled arms
fitting through the sleeves,
and the way you wiggle into it.
The dress still holds
the smell of citrus
perfume from before.
You sashay when you wear
long dresses on workdays.
I witness the subtle difference,
and the way you saunter,
and all your variations
color my life.
I enjoy, more than all,
the emerald fabric on you,
it has a suggestive rustle.
The heavy layers
over your toned, determined legs
is lovely to gaze at
when you strut through the kitchen.
And somewhere sleeping,
the sun in her pale and trying beauty,
has yet to drag itself
in lesser shades across the sky.
Choosing a dress for you
from your closet of forgotten colors
is still the life I want, and better
than anything outside.
The wind chill is a devilish 15 below today.
You have no feathers nor fat on your bony feet.
They must be cold, holding tight to the railing.
For some reason, you decided to stay behind.
Didn't follow the flock to warmer skies.
Maybe your instincts are not refined enough.
Maybe you're an autistic avian, didn't socially cut it.
Maybe you've been shunned by the blush.
Didn't have the right touch to find a mate.
Didn't put enough wigglers on the plate.
Maybe there's a new crimp or crick in your DNA.
The reason you sit in a bowl of ice today.
Maybe you think I'm a freak with polyester feathers and rubber feet.
My dad was a boll weevil and my grandpa was too.
We travelled the Southern states through.
To Arkansas and Texas we did roam,
forever looking for a home.
I'm still searching for a place to dwell,
and polyester is a living hell.
Juicy Couture
Juicy Couture
Dont make ish like this no more
Bring back good fashion
SHEIN is tired
Wool, silk, linens
Put polyester in a fire
The fads have faded
Trends are tired
Give us proper clothes
Our situation is dire
This waste, this consumption
Our society is plagued
This greed, this hunger
Buying through guilt and rage
A human hole
Fill it with stuff
Emotions take hold
Fill it with fluff
No depth
Less dimension
Sorrowfully empty
Riddled with tension
It tugs, it pulls
Waits for your truth
It gnaws, it scream
Be the sleuth
No one can understand
First, you must learn
Self-discovering journey
Then peace you will earn
No hole, only hope
No greed, but gratitude
Find yourself chanting
No woes, but platitudes
Their tales old as time
Hold truth in every rhyme
Follow a life of your design
Don't believe it?
This is the sign.
BREAKING: [WEALTHY VENTURE CAPITALIST] BUYS
[PLOT OF LAND] FOR [INDUSTRIAL EXPANSION]
[CIGARETTES] AND [TYLENOL]
[TORNIQUETES] AND [ALCOHOL]
LOOPY DOOPY [LAUGHING GAS]
[COLORS] [FLAVORS] [SASSAFRAS]
FOR [FALSE SENSE OF FULFILLMENT], TRY
[ARTIFICIAL PRODUCT MARKETED TO MASSES]
[HOUSE FIRES] AND [CAR COLLISIONS]
[BURNING TIRES] [FIRST INCISION]
POKING AT YOUR [LUNGS] AND [HEART]
[PURVEYOR] TO SELL YOUR [PARTS]
[SELF MUTILATION] AND [SHEDDING SKIN]
IS ALL THE RAGE
[RUBBER HOSES] [PLASTIC GUMS]
[POWER DRILLS] AND [OIL DRUMS]
[SYNTHETIC SOLES] AND [FAT PAYCHECKS]
[POLYESTER] AND [LATEX]
LIMITED TIME SALE ON [INORGANIC BODY PARTS]
AND [FAKE IDENTITIES]
[PROSTHETICS] AND [FACTORIES]
[GASOLINE] AND [BATTERIES]
[CRACKS] AND [FISSURES] IN YOUR [SKIN]
DOUSED IN [DIRTY MEDICINE]
You never know; you could possess the eternity gene.
The one that morphed from ordinary into a miracle.
It would seem wonderful... at first.
You'd become a star
a YouTube phenom
a best seller
everybody screaming for an autograph
a touch of your polyester robe
begging for the secret to eternal life.
The envy of the universe....
Delayed pulse of a curse.
You've outlived a million wives and counting.
100 million friends.
You've been to an endless chain of children's funerals.
A million sorrows that never end.
You've outlived your favorite constellation.
You're blind to the possibility of ever meeting God.
You finally pray for the blessing of a death. That never arrives.
You'd half lose your mind,
become a display in a museum.
Eventually be pitied as a freak.
Treated as a leper.
To be avoided at all costs
A never-ending cosmic flaw.
Scratchy polyester pants
plucked from the bottom rack.
Wrinkled plaid shirts
for veiling blood, sweat, and dirt
A clip-on tie purchased on the cheap
for a rose garden wedding
destined for the weeds.
Faux leather- funeral shoes
(Like wide-mouthed baby birds)
screaming for a flighty mother
to gift them a half-chewed worm.
Sit-upons that we wove together.
The troop activity. How many spots
will remember me?
The wicker basket and picnic blanket
woven into the amphitheatre. We,
my hubby and I,
cozied up, listened to Amy Grant.
My towel, with the Caribbean islands,
sinking in the warm sand, waiting
for my salt-sea body to rest.
My familiar easy chair,
the grandkids are always
welcome to share.
The pews that retain glory and praise
on Sundays and Wednesdays.
The split-level stairs,
carpeted teal,
where I oft sit and watch
somersaults
and converse with a houseful.
There are the horses,
that lent their backs,
brought me to greater heights -
walked me on the Cozumel beach,
‘round Yukon’s emerald lake,
and one that wanted to dive off a cliff,
“whoa…no!” I took control.
On my childhood bed,
so close to my sister-cousin.
We laughed and shared -
now it's only in my memory.
The yellow bus, -
my hopes and dreams were sown
within its polyester seats.
So many places where I sat,
brimming above or below the surface.
So many places we stay and go.
We squat, recline, attack.
The teachers’ voices were loud and shrill,
but there was just one message,
“everyone sit still!”,
though it was hard on the parquet floor,
in polyester trousers,
bought the week before,
the first year head took to the stage,
like his long black cloak,
he was from another age,
our welcome to school it wasn’t the best,
being told we were failures,
in eleven plus tests,
brought up on praise for autumn verses,
I was shocked to hear,
we’d never be silk purses,
talents and abilities didn’t get a mention,
from the stretched and burnt out staff,
longing for their pension,
all around the system was failing,
I looked out of the window,
to life beyond the railings.
Thanks Giving Party
Roosters arranged thanksgiving party
inviting a big troop of Turkey.
Roasted pumpkin in menu.
Wide yard chosen as venue,
close -by their residence termed ' Poultry.'
Monkey was appointed as the chef.
Group of hens came prompt forward to help.
Mushrooms and corns to be grilled.
Hosts - guests tasted to be thrilled.
All danced joyous on rhythmic step.
On the pointed beaks, birds put lipsticks.
Turkeys wore shiny crown of plastics.
The family of roosters,
dressed smart in polyester.
Thanksgiving party ran fantastic.
Sounds of inaudible shadows fleeing for cover
They're on my trail; one path has led to another
The faint noises of their traffic rouse those nearby
Summer's night seems to be serene, but it is a lie
in the middle of the bustle of the busy streets
Let's explore some half-full mumbling retreats
The city's sound is reminiscent of a symphony
In this social junkyard, that might restore dignity
Art implies unseal mind, yet doubt can block them
In this era of polyester, I'm scanning for a gem
However, it's not unusual for words to come freely
Hair spilled shadows, never soaked so deeply
Airy grace of a picture clashes with the evil below
Deep seas are noiseless, and this we know
Art relieves anxiousness and stimulates creativity
When people see you, they may view positivity.
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