Glamour, Clamour.

She has the eyes of a snake
and the heart of a wolf -
the appetite of maggots with their seeking mouths.
She has the beauty of a worm.
She has the wits of a fox.
And the wonder of the wings
are hers to behold:
When she dreams,
When she dreams.

She has hands on her eyes,
Taking everything she sees;
She has mouths where her heart should be.
Her stomach fills up all the space
where once the rest of her would dwell
she has a hundred thousand teeth
and a dozen extra tongues.

She hasn't got a name because she ate that too.
And she devoured all b o u n d a r i e s
There is no-space between that She,
And the outer without She,
yet she turns her gaze to us and
craves for more.

Her eyes are stained bright green,
And her fingernails are red,
All the white replaced with discs of dirt.
See, she scrabbles in the dust -
and she turns away what's here,
sitting fattened on the wish for more.

She's got cogs for brains -
and the woman's bones are chains,
She's got a thousand
words
to
say.

But her lips are too tight,
Tenfold atrophied with spite,
Those around her have two cups for ears.
Whatever putrid lie that leaks
from the hole from which she speaks,
is an echo in an

empty world

And when everything is full,
All that is, is in her grasp,
So she looks within and whispers,
'More'.