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Pebble by Paula Puolakka

Paula Puolakka | Sep 30th, 2019 | poetry | No Comments

Poem

I’m the dullest person you can imagine.

I’m not flashing my lashes
like Katy Perry or Lady Gaga:
prancing around in a dress made out of bacon
or old plastic bags.
They are the reason why the girls in their 20s are having issues:
instead of full-bodied individuals, they are forced to turn into paper-thin
characters without any mind and loaded only with aesthetic value.

I’m not Madonna:
the testosterone-filled amazon
showing her buttocks to all
at the age of 61.
She’s the reason why the girls of the 1980s went insane:
instead of being raped by sleazy guys, the girls were constantly
mind-raped by a woman whose target was to kill anything sweet and
feminine
to become the queen of the newly created group of mentally violated
“feminists.”

My name is Paula,
and I’m the young woman in her gray hoodie, black leather Converses,
and skinny black pants,
strolling around at the Botanic Garden:
imagining that I’m having a conversation
with my long-lost soul brother, the mathematician.

I have no tricks up my sleeves,
but maybe one day,
when you’re not looking,
I will place a pebble on your table,
and when you finally turn around, you will have to face
the perplexing question:
“How did that get there?”

Poet Bio

Paula Puolakka is a Beat poet, writer, and MA (History of Science and Ideas.)

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