Pink Wheelchair

First some facts then some verse.


Barbie Doll Factoids & Footnotes

* Mattel makes roughly 1.9 billion dollars yearly on the Barbie Doll.

* 3 Barbie dolls are sold every second.

Barbie’s neck is twice the length it should be,
her legs are longer than her torso,
And her feet are freakishly small…suggesting possibly the practice of foot-binding.

Barbie’s features and physique converted into realistic measurements:

Height: 7 feet, 2 inches
Weight: 110 lbs
Hips: Between 30 and 36 inches
Waist: Between 18 and 28 inches
Bust: Between 38 and 48 inches

Based on this abnormal body type,
Having the spine of a prepubescent girl, overdeveloped legs, underdeveloped feet and forearms, and a hypertrophied neck,
Barbie would be forced to crawl around on all fours like a crippled giraffe.

It is worth noting that if such a being existed it would have great difficult avoiding the fracture or ultimately the disassembly of the lumbar spine due to alien joint placement.

Also, based on the converted measurements Barbie would not have the 17 to 22% body fat required to properly menstruate.




Brain-dead Barbie has Nice Tits

“Women who seek to be equal with men lack ambition”
-Dr. Timothy Leary

Zythepsary funk beat-shop swing, I found a home…I’m a lover.
I found paperback romance, enticing in the hourglass configuration and acetylene finish of curving brows twist-tied behind cardboard and finely woven polymers.

The alehouse-taproom taverns of hemp and of hop, where accordion foothills meet behind streams of moist clay and tiger lilies. Where roadhouse hussies work the gallows and plot penny dreadful infidelity.

It was in this sanctorium I rest liquored and salty, prostrating in the wisp of unworldly malaise. The vague discomfort of recent infibulation piercing like Berkowitz…stroking the Bavarian lederhosen of a Bird Lilli villenage.

A miasma of graham cracker pheromones, shambling in six inch ankle-wrap spikes; impressionable coquettes affection control to faceless contrivances drudging through
acrylic Mc-mansion’s in protest.

Teenage fashion supermodels fresh from the leucotomy farm conjugating like Wuornos barflies and flirting up like French-maids in jazz clubs thick with carbon monoxide. I was not busy embalming or honeymooning, I was lurking sinister in the effluvium of Mattel’s cocktail lounge plotting a little bit of heartbreak.

Candy-striping philanderers would labor for the possessive attention of lucrative stockbrokers. Permeating through the enigmatic vapor of July 9th delirium tremens. They are nothing but confounded dishonesty and dissatisfaction in the luscious tyke forms of high society!
You’ve got to thank Ruth Handler, for without her matriarchal devotion your spawnship would have been nothing more than a nocturnal emission.


She appears beloved, blossoming ambivalent with those weak stomachs of rape.
Incapable of reproduction, impeding on digestion and pinched nerves.
Barbara Millicent Roberts bares the delineate proportions prayed for by wishful thinking girl scouts. Busts and wet crotches suffused in polyvinyl chloride. Features that graze all adolescent boys onanistic daydreams, disrupted by the florescent lighting fixtures beaming
“Real living breathing women on sale!”

She is partially crystalline, partially amorphous, smiling at the mercy of that topknot ponytail and tightly curled bangs. Compromising the catheter, cauldron tubs draining…rubber stoppers cool with bottom fear and cotton perverting voices as she scrubs the elastomer from her surface skin. She’s mint in box, one of a kind decaying beneath the lace and wires of royal corsetry. A threadbare chemise corrodes her ethylene core. Distressed by lack of human contact;
soft iris’s distant glom, teary eyes sullen with lobotomy.

She will never grow old and tell me I am worthless, slam the door in a fit of rage or add Draino to my boxcar. She does not demand affection but is grateful to be at the receiving end. She enjoys caressing to nurse but only because she can’t will her limbs out of entropy.

The refrain is sometimes frightening but memories of her and I, and the goose bumps rising sibilating yesterdays maxims like “Come hither”, “Popular with children” and
“This is all for you.”

Why did it have to come to this?
Ray Croc, Walt Disney, NASA, the Nazi party, irregular menstruation, anorexia nervosa, the committee for propagation of virtue and prevention of vice, the republicans and democrats, Malibu American dream disease, half-assed superficial friendships, rabid materialism, and the fashion industry tried to infect and consume you…and you gave in smiling sullen with lobotomy.


Note: Brain-dead Barbie has Nice Tits appeared in the literary magazine Breadcrumb Scabs.