Brooklyn

i was made of metal for mortal affairs.
now translated to an electronic whore with chainsaw charm and tricks up her sleeves.
painfully beautiful but domestically plastic.
her thrills have been stappled to her and her misery sewn shut.
her dolls are all scarfaced ghosts that live in spaceships made from sorrow.
her cigarettes burn magenta and smell like heroin.
her voilent stare will leave you in the gutter.
her favorite cowboy was named frankenstein.
she has a wolverine for a pet.
her scarlett venom lipstick is hammered on every night.
mirrors scramble to reveal her beauty.
she keep her brassknuckles glossy.
she plays at the cemetary and feed sthe black crowes.
here she confesses of her rubber bones and in sequences she chatters.
at midnight we hold her funeral.
she will be dressed as captian hook.