centered around sexuality, first love, the grotesque, gender, lust, violence, power, infidelity, identity, our bodies, femininity, and being loved,used, touched,and sometimes even satisfied
This is a place for me to collect my poems and also post things that inspire me or really strike my fancy.
Counter
Counter
May 3, 2012
The Relationship of Flesh or Vice-Versa: Collected Poems
May 3, 2012
Cocktail Party Curriculum
Wasp-wasted, vespid and buzzing. I will lace myself
into the circumference of a man’s hands, let him push out
my guts. I will only meet in rooms furnished with
fainting chairs. Posed unconscious as a regal date-rape
damsel. I could wear a double-bubble prom dress.
You could pop it, puncture easily. Or if I wore a red
gown with a hoop, you could remove it to hula. Or you
could melt me down to remold the shape of purity. Crush
my form into a hoof, removing my ankles. Immobility is
sexy. I learn the history of chromosomes in cocktail party
courses. I sparkle from hem to tongue, able to hold the ladder
of which I am able to hold as well as my wine: sloppily.
I’d rather not. I’d rather not hold.
May 3, 2012
Marriage: The Little Death
Take my roaring bullshit. Mother feared giraffes
breaking into her bedroom. I could not
hear the word bitch. Decapitated breasts. Always
breasts. Are they like putty? I fell in love
until it hurt my stomach. He begged me to make it
good. We remembered bad beds
like children’s book mattresses. Why would he want
to hold the tremors? Like my own fingernails
scraping my insides. Were other women
candied codeine? Fucking till he puked. Moaning
in a gutter. Odes to Medusas. I could not hear
the word bitch. He put my panties in my mouth. He slept
with my silk shirt. Dear God, let me sewn to the sockets
that ate him. Saliva drenched with my female grotesque.
Thieves and fools. I stare until they’re
pretty. An ogre’s forehead. A mangled brow. Who
whimpers for him? How could he possibly want to reenact
the scenes where I am a dead bitch begging. He begs
for begging. I sob demons. It’s only skin. Barely
skin. He let me tear and taught me how to throw
an uppercut. Yet he kept me from his jugular
even as he carved his history out of his bowels
then stitched it into my cranium. He strangled
pleasure until his ex girlfriend passed out
in the bathtub. He raised her baby and his
younger brothers. But I was never the mother of our
Sebastian. I could not hear the word bitch.
The marriage debt. It’s death.
February 8, 2012
phantasmagoria: IV
A spark has been lit.
We are strung out across the town
like orange peels, askew beneath
a crystal moon. You say, “let us
see darkness as light,” and so
we become fire.Catlike, we prowl. The edifice
begins to crumble; the sycamores’
shadows grow long as their branches
rise to catch…
I have the most talented friends! Bean Nights confirm that. Now Tumblr, stop distracting me/being so enticing so I can go play catch-up for poetry. I kind of think of Carol Ann as Athena or something. Powerful, wise, and often at your aid, but intimidating as fuck.
February 1, 2012
Get off the Van Tour Reprise
Charleston in late January feels like
the Northeast back in June.
Atmospheric reverb melts
muscles and all chords pull my hips.
My torso jumps to “Jeff Guitar.”
I’m all black lace and fringe and velvet and grunge.
The band is concentrated tongues,
black light lit veins, the image of E.T. hugging Bin Laden,
and double M’s writhing to form an eight-armed Demi-God.
This van is not a rental. Get on the roof. Screw Triangle.
Jameson? Hit this? Bubblegum? Why, yes, and thank you kindly.
Piscean intuition and watercourse travel stories (brooks and glens.)
“Oh damn girls, dry laughter, sip-a-da-ba-ba, glamour shots.
It’s all happening. Like when camp kids meet up after summer’s
over. Our bonfire was floral flavored smoke and “That Other Shit”
became the closest thing to a camp song. I was there in a backyard
in Philly. I was there. When the backseat van-fort burned down
with the roof rules, I received indemnities. Not a casualty
of summer secession, but an interim citizen. This is the public
spirit of a novel nation-state. I am not a tenant of the comatose
countryside. I am not an ex-ally and am more than an ally’s ex.
All the highways and the venues and the pit stops
mapped this. The rapture never went down. This is
modern mankind.
(Source: ohhladymidnight)
February 1, 2012
Fable of the Mermaid and the Drunks
All those men were there inside,
when she came in totally naked.
They had been drinking: they began to spit.
Newly come from the river, she knew nothing.
She was a mermaid who had lost her way.
The insults flowed down her gleaming flesh.
Obscenities drowned her golden breasts.
Not knowing tears, she did not weep tears.
Not knowing clothes, she did not have clothes.
They blackened her with burnt corks and cigarette stubs,
and rolled around laughing on the tavern floor.
She did not speak because she had no speech.
Her eyes were the colour of distant love,
her twin arms were made of white topaz.
Her lips moved, silent, in a coral light,
and suddenly she went out by that door.
Entering the river she was cleaned,
shining like a white stone in the rain,
and without looking back she swam again
swam towards emptiness, swam towards death.
February 1, 2012
Touch Talks Touch
I gawked Paul Newman’s ogle. You introduced us. Formally,
I was formulated as your girl. I wanted the sound surface,
trade-marked modern, but laid with your defects on a crusty mattress.
The porch that had housed our first affair, the splintered love-seat
where your drugged digits slithered my stoned smidgeon, now liquidated.
You nipped my thighs into the skin of plums. An ache for splattered gums.
Got off on your disfigurement. Opposite of attraction.
The gent tempted otherwise. Rugged appetite. To be varnished by his brawn…
In a windy bar, I realized it was feasible. Baited by the birthday cougar,
he had no loyalty to the bare mobile upload figure. In my go-go dress, with my
blossom clip, I could staff the Beauty Bar, he said. Bar-maiden beauty.
So when he murmured about Chi-City candy, I contemplated a woozy lick.
Instead he spectated sterile breeding and conked out flat on his own brawn
in the hallway. Until two seasons later, I thought it was girlish fiction,
the idea of it. But suddenly he was flesh. I fell into his flannel and we
caught up. Your name was casual until I isolated it and he made a claim
you never will. He was sure of adoration on a conditioned couch. Your conquests
didn’t matter, just as he could quest my taut tiers and still be devoted to his kept
bountiful bones. There’s brevity in every lust.
Perceivably preoccupied, he thrummed, but was a viewer of
my platform lacking dance. Flattered by his need to confess noticing
my tasseled muscles, I became self-satisfied. A sweetmeat popsicle,
something of the sort he called me. Glad to have me, even grateful. He scooted
towards the backseat to squeeze my arm for emphasis. Our tongues tangled
with the drunken music, our bodies chill. It only amounted to
a blacked-out belt removal. There’s a flash of something practiced, a possible
curse for something not on hand, and a sleeping bag scuttle cut short and
unpeeled. Passion propagates because of the sample. But more so, I worry
what it says about touch. I could still be yours in spite of every other
inch you’ve covered. Handling is remarkably isolated.
January 30, 2012
Gurlesque: Yellow Love
Runny yolk yellow threads, an eyesore with a silver Jesus piece thumping against your neck.
Mishandled by yellowed fingers, you lost your God in Glendale. Yellow flames exploit the cross in a five second frame of your yellow bellied hometown. “Get my feelings hurt,”
your yellow bruise of a wounded voice croaks in the background. You inherited your mother’s
yellow head and appetite for neon drinks. As if it was a snakebite, I sucked the poison
from your yellowing liver every time I had your tongue. Infested with fever, I puked up your
yellow crust for five months while refusing to be disgusted. Then one drunken modern man,
who I hadn’t seen since you were the hue of a shooting-star, declared that you love me, yellow,
dismissing the sallow faithlessness still hanging like halogen lamps from the ceiling of the bagel shop
where you hyped your betrayal like gossip. It is a monstrosity, that shade of love.
It tinges you a concentrated-urine yellow, the yellow of bad bile, the foul yellow that leaks
into gutters and lumps hobo messes in their subways nests, buried under the route I tried to take
to reach your yellow tracks. Your image is reduced to buried-pupil eyeballs, rolling back
in ecstasy, signaling o.d.s, creating the stage presence of performed hysteria.
They are as blank and jaundice yellow as they were when they promised the sham I required,
lying lined with concern and busted vessels, bloodshot from a sleepless night
on a yellow mattress with a yellow lover. She was breezy wheat yellow, daffodil yellow,
songbird yellow, as beautiful and endearing and phony as your piss yellow mouth.
Composed of yellow fluid, yellow teeth, yellow contusions, you are a yellow pledge,
a pile of yellow needs. Yearning yellow. Yelping yellow. Low, low, low, debased yellow.
All yellow.
(Source: ohhladymidnight)
January 22, 2012
EC 2
The moon sets and all wonder is lost.
Our planetary system has been lost in the frost.
Oh well, nothing like cold fists of unassuming diet clods
of low fat dirt
give a low blow job and the stink dog
don’t be like that, baby, you can’t manipulate me anymore
being used is kinky
and there are too many staircases without a slinky
WHY DOES MY JAW HURT?
you are my only true love
January 13, 2012
Girl Child
Puréed and poured into a child’s bladder, I am pink piss.
I am always mentioned wearing a Disney Store crown
and Minnie Mouse tutu. Five pounds, seven ounces
dumped out of ninety-five.
T.V. dinners dissected with scalpels.
He talks tabloid bodies. For her, it’s always polaroids.
I question the logistics of sawing off my hips.
Perfection is prepubescent. Adult bulk oozes into
a digital smear, a specific image I only contextualized
through torsos. Course nap and spoiled pork,
ruddy and raw. I am salted in order
to deter such a condition. I am stuffed into shakers
and pinched with the granules. It is poured down my throat
like the Epson I gagged so that my stomach could plop out
for easy hip removal. I am the vile taste of chemical tears
and whatever is being ousted.
I hand myself over as toddler teeth, enamel rotted
with effort. My name is the lineage of a mad woman.
I must not become a woman.
Instead I am asked to define myself into aviary bones.
January 9, 2012
Gutter Saint #2: Identity
I finally got around to making a second issue of my zine. :) I am so lucky to know the amount of incredibly talented people that I do.
(Source: ohhladymidnight)
December 25, 2011
Gore Gore Girl
Peppered on the pizza place staircase,
you exposed your masochist veins.
Hurt as a hobby. Can I please hammer
your kneecaps, break you in my jaw?
They call me Nosferatu Norfleet.
My black knee high legs bent, feet arched
to the ceiling of your car and my
slutty elbow on your armrest. Occupy.
Slash/slit. A feel good flay, a good time
gash. I want to gasp God. Muscle gape.
I’m a gore gore girl. There’s just
a peephole flash of your arms. Just your
arms. No, it’s your fingers in cardigan
buttonholes . Your arms off. Tangled
canary yellow. It’s your spasm cracked neck.
My Atlantis catacombs aquatic gilded
gap. Grate me great. Gorge in gore.
Disorder fetish. A laundered t-shirt
to wipe the cum off my cheek. Jaws.
My devastatingly young arms
clutching sheets to my chest as I call
my mother to tell her I won’t be home
until morning. Your boyish dirty honest
smile in my mouth. My tongue in your grin.
Bear trap teeth. That unopened condom
sitting on sticker horses humping.
The world is surreal when you’re powerless.
A clipped life worded world becomes worlds
when a trembling atom contracts
and moans inaudible in what universe means.
Macrocosmed microcosm. I want to gasp
God with a developing syrup-pink mouth
unaware that God is tiny and tingling
and terrifying and of the flesh.
December 20, 2011
Brain Beetles
My thoughts are cross dressers
drinking five dollar bottles of wine
while performing a maladroit square dance
in a moon bounce. When they ricochet into speech
they make no more sense than acid tubas,
but sound just as lovely. Pretty little fools that they are,
they apply too much glitter and lopsided lashes
to look more like basic babes. I’d like to eat them
like pulp fiction candy, but that craving is biological.
They are my own organic mucous taffy.
To the average consumer they’re probably
comparable to those suckers encased with crickets
and scorpions. I can’t really think of any other product
that is all at once so unappealing, intriguing,
sugary, creepy, and comical. See what I mean now?
My thoughts are so absurd they think they are
creepy-crawly lollipops.
December 15, 2011
"Octavio Paz claims that poetry is an act of magical intervention that redeems us out of the constraints and delusions of linear time. For him, the poem does not stop time but “contradicts and disfigures it,” producing what Paz calls “anti-history.” “The poet,” he says, “is the geographer of heaven and hell.” Each new poem is a code for a reality that is being unraveled as the poem proceeds."
— Lara Glenum (I love how a chain of perspectives can reaffirm my own truth and make me feel connected to the world outside of my realm.)
1 of 9
Next page
-
-
“Mike Collins is the voice of a generation.”— Mike Collins
-
my pal andrew margalit’s collection of commie hats on his mantle
-
“An ear, severed, listens./ An eye, cut in strips,/ does justice to all this.”— Paul Celan
-
-
me too, gurl. me too.
-
i’m the kind of guy
who cockslaps
generalizing “feminists.”then, usually
i shout
“feel my power, bitch!” -
Her name, my tongue
Her name is raw ginger and lime
On my tongueBiting back like
Beetles spiking each battle with
Antlers all...
