Paul Tanner

the ballad of hollow girl 

she needed the biggest, she needed the best.
the boys in her town were stubs 
and the men of the city were little more.

so hollow girl hiked the globe:
sometimes paying for it, sometimes raping. 
hollow girl went shore to shore
pounced on and bounced on every man she saw
in countries you’ve never heard of.
she passed herself around the few hidden tribes 
whitey hadn’t wiped out yet,
but even they barely scraped the sides 
of the insides of hollow girl 
and as she lay in jungles crying hollow cries
as technicolour beetles scurried over her hollow girl body, 
the satellite picked her up: 
the narcs in secret Lab 47b were surveying the globe
for the next tree glue, the next cancer-curing coconut or whatever, 
when they got wind of hollow girl
and they homed in on her: 
watched her rut and cry and rut. 

a chopper swooped in and got her
and hollow girl was wheeled into shady government clubs 
where:
narcs took turns. 
prime ministers had a go of it. 
royals hopped on. 
powerful men – anonymous and too famous, 
they all plugged her up, 
even all at once at one point
but alas – they still barely met each other 
in her. 
it was no good:
hollow girl was still hollow.

so the important men shot her into space.
the bastards, they shot hollow girl into space. 
hollow girl hurtling through the cosmos in a big phallic rocket
that she could easily take: the irony not lost
as she watched galaxies slide by the window like weird little windy towns. 
hollow girl wishing she could be full. 
wishing she could be a full full-on lesbian, 
as the edge of the universe came yonder 
faster than she ever had

then there was 
nothing

then there was 
something – 
maybe some light?
some white light?

and then
she woke up 
on God’s lap 

who’s your daddy? He said 
and wriggled her up and down His length
but still, STILL
hollow girl was unsatisfied.

that was it. 
she’d had enough
of never having had enough.
it was the literal last straw.
she slipped right off Him,
and He slipped right out of her.
then she leapt up at His face 
and scratched it into a big useless pate.
then she sat panting on Him a while …

finally, she felt good. 
not great, but good enough
there, on God’s dead lap.
still not fulfilled: 
quite the opposite in fact. 
but she was full of unfulfillment, you see?
the agony of hope was gone at last. 
she was choc-full of dreams of vengeance 
as the blood of His face rained down on her. 

a hate 
more powerful than any dick
swelled inside her.
The Hate filled her up, all right. 
The Hate bubbled out of her every chasm orifice, 
on the faceless throne of our baby dick dead God.

on Her throne. 
She was pregnant with vengeance 
as destiny coursed through Her hollow body. 

and Hollow God? 
She looked down at all of us
and now Her work
could begin. 

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