Sex in the Icy Kingdom

Sex in the Icy Kingdom Medusa-4-by-stainedpaper
Image: “Medusa 4” by Isobel Francisco, pencil charcoal and ink on paper, 2014

“When she was not actually talking to him now she found it hard to keep him distinct from everyone else, everyone with whom she had ever slept or almost slept or refused to sleep or wanted to sleep. It had seemed this past month as if they were all one, that her life had been a single sexual encounter, one dreamed fuck, no beginnings or endings, no point beyond itself.” – Joan Didion, Play It As It Lays


I am your cold fairy princess,
obsessed with sex,
and you are my dumb boy who sends me to the forest
of hurt feelings and warm tears that freeze
in the infinite darkness
and the owls are waiting for me in the trees.

I am unfair to you, mean,
there are no feelings deep inside my heart.

I fail to go outside today,
sleeping in while the world slips by
and I am wondering about my calculating cruelty.

Obsession grows tired, sleeps,
and I am awake. Do you understand me?
I do not understand myself.
I have no definition of beauty except
what I can make people crave.
There is no chance for beauty to emerge,
except the feeling of being trapped,
obsessed with enigmas you cannot break.

I am drifting, drifting further into sexual oddities.
While my mind turns off, pondering, turning over and over,
what is it that makes a temptress starve?
Maybe her inability to be swallowed by love.
And yet, what is love? Nothing. Nothing,
just a made-up illusion of which we are sitting
in the darkness of our passions, hormones, wants, physical appetites.

I am not beauty.
I am not desire.
I am not your enigma.
I am myself who stands alone,
bereft of emotion,
bereft of light.

I am your fantasy,
your whore,
your tears,
your frustration.
I am all of these
and none of these.
I am what you cannot have.
I am insanity.
I am your insanity.

Where do I learn my lessons to make you feel ecstasy?
I do not know. They come from deep within,
with a heart that pumps blood
through simple little arteries and veins.
I say, “I love you” to decorate a room
wrought with hard fucking
that muffles my cries and yours in the rosy room.
Something to add to the layer of cake – love.
I laugh, what is love? Nothing. Nothing.

I am your cold fairy princess
whom your fantasies place
before the market of pigs
who threaten your ownership of me,
and all things inside,
between my legs,
inside my hands,
my eyes,
my tears.

I am your cold fairy princess,
obsessed with sex,
without authority that I should be
the love in your heart.

Love, what is love? Nothing,
but a nice decoration I mention
while I breathe heavy against your neck,
and command you to ecstasy,





six times,

and I break, break,

with no definition of beauty,

no faith in love,

no care for you.


What would I give now for a cigarette
and a nice fuck to jolt my bones?

Fucks are not nice. We know that.
There’s something deeper than that.
I am waiting, watching, lazy,
while life just passes me by,
and the rest of the world sleeps.

What makes good girls, girls,
and what makes good girls, good?

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