Jamie Lee Curtis
After all, what is sex?
A flap of skin, a way of walking.
Shoulders, hips, shoulders, hands.
Meat parades in summertimes when sickly flies are buzzing.
After all, what is dress?
A piece of cloth offset by a dramatic neckline.
A choice of wool or sinful silk.
Encirlced wrist, a silver ring that has a way of rusting.
The doctor cuts, the cut abides, and by the cut abide --
the only cut that teaches you your way of walking.
After all, what is self?
The sense of self that sleeps on mossy rocks 'neath squirming morays.
Not the stone but the stream that swims above the stone.
Dead bloated names in waves where boys and girls are writhing running.
The doctor cuts, the cut abides, and by the cut abide --
the only cut that teaches you your way of walking.
A love of dolls, a love of guns that won't fire when fired upon.
Loving dolls or guns: it's not a way of walking.
Arrow, circle, arrow, circle: not a way of walking.
