The Surrealist Woman

She has cockroach lips Wet as lickspittle Her tongue is a loaded dice Her teeth are plugs from the Dorian fruit Her womb is s rotting harbour Many ships have foundered there Her blood is hourglass sand At noon and midnight she stands on her head There are mermaid's purses Hanging under her eyes Her dress is a patchwork of litter Her hair is a fizz of bluebottles Her cleavage is deep as an Artic crack Her breasts are two plucked hens Their beaks are her nipples Her body's a taxidermist's nightmare Burst springs and sagging plush She tiptoes round the abyss of the 21sr century Her voice is a frog's croak She whips your certainties until they bleed