In the center of a clearing
in a place where no one dares go
you’ll find a tall tower of stone brick
nestled among large contorted rocks
that hug its foundation
from where it rises up
a cloud buster
with a crowning cone roof
made of small welded fragments
of brass and copper
a narrow sedge hat
gently resting on a tall silo
from which almost unobtrusively
a drain pipe juts out at the top
and softly pours a thin stream
of thick, viscous, black oil
that falls straight down
and lands squarely on the head
of a bald Rapunzel;
she is a sad, pathetic thing
hiding her eyes
while holding up her face with her hands
high up in the tower’s only window;
the oil hits her head, dead center
and pours away to either side
again falling straight down
and giving Rapunzel
long thick strands of hair
that no prince will ever climb
and no witch will ever cut.

Lace front wigs growing coarse and dull
on sheiks who don’t need them;
heady days are ahead, an oil rush
over rocky planes, olive oil will make
their hair silky and shiny
even wavy, and full of
elastic truth.

– matt at shadow of iris

[This poem was inspired by the work of Esao Andrews]