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I Find Your Jewel Jammed Inside Me and More
I Find Your Jewel Jammed Inside Me
but thanks for the memory.
I turn it to mercy since I know you take pains for your species
two boys, tractor-smashed
their summersong dead
so grotesque we strip the bed
but I’m not afraid to be left silver-legged
above the garage
watch your average drop
headlights firelights up our thighs
Women will seek out a sign on the traintracks
see marry me in the weave of a beachtowel
secrets cream sodas sweaty cartomancy.
We stripped to discuss
our slipped discs and birthdays
how we used to fuck smoking clove cigarettes
in your Ford Escort.
It’s messy in here. Sometimes I focus my apple-print headband
sometimes I push through the rooks without burden
glowing, unequal, leaking orange keys.
You leave me fresh fish, rings and a ship
dogging the crosses
foxing the bearchild.
You leave me the ardor of thanatos
hideous. Texas-sized telekinesis.
I’ll run when your lucky bloodstone makes sense.
Someone had to do it smearing my makeup
all over my cape
I feed the kids a cloud-velvet tear in my clownsuit
show them white-legged
a dodo, man-faced
a wasp and a she-crab
It’s the way our drug works
Persian meat bones and teeth
cash as we roll past the lawnmower blades.
I use a toothpick to draw his claw legs
keep our pyramid open for immunization
a small funeral home takes my forehead wrinkles
turns them to eyes.
The theme is broad hands + pale nails make us sick.
The wood-paneled room has a saucer-faced psychic inside.
We blink free of hot grease
and we all dream we’re fucking our fathers.
I play two sisters in this real-time film.
The more luminous one wears bells and a housedress
listens to trucks.
Summer’s so over late guns and trade rumors.
I cross it obsessed with her oily injury
the other one’s bright-yellow tricycle harness.
I write the same song
one sister’s wasp and the other one’s skin.
I watch something hollow transpire down at the violet-tiled Orthodox church.
Calories are god’s ghosts sundrop, tomahawk
and the birdspell makes sense to the priest
then he writes the word wand to make it all happen:
the hen lays a twin egg
sunchop, pirate costume
we each get raped
sun dickory dock as the graveyard loop starts--
a spy or a spike coming on
then our embryo’s antlers are cotton, pocked green.
and we give him scream treatment, reclaim--
Gnomes and Snarls, Postpartum
The gypsy in me’s fervid
pregnant and slut shaming burning down our houses
clubbing princess kneecaps crushing figure skates.
The themes are hairy legs
saddle shoes and rubber panties
belladonna glitter pianos
the family shares one gas mask
fakes god’s gold astronomy
as you jingle my aesthetic
fresh gash in your head.
We take each other’s capsules
as I mime a double axle
juicy syringe on pink brocade
reflected in the teardrop
of my red-lashed eye
and I go through these phases
when I lick the cauldron
and I’m happy with my curses
and I’m happy with my casket
and Father Domino is haunted
by the Christ with martian arms
and the gypsies kiss their pussies
on the bridge at Avignon.
I Want to Understand Past Hot Carpe Diem
but you make a date for cold-water war
your yellow bush your loose lingerie
immune to the hell-spell’s slim forum.
You make a date for late sex
our gold rush.
The floppy-breasted woman scared me at the front door
w/the four missing kids apple-core candles
my own baseball bats.
Christ, I was fragile then, heart-fat, collapsing.
I used to wade in the dirt. I used to wait. Snake-crazy. I knitted for death
circus-print curtains, the root of the shimmy.
It took a while to get this life started
a folk song map so we know all the dances
old lace and poverty, porcelain porn
Now I’m swimming in it
w/ a big-headed baby
a fawn-face I can’t power off.
Let me go through this phase
with a paint-storm a hiccup
let me feel safe
but vouch for the cellar with aplomb.
Dark girls remove their compromises
the turkey hawk picking them dry.
There’s a valve in each step an all-clear a drug cluck
I keep dead alive. There won’t be a clean eye.
It Can’t Be Pupaphobia
When the Glosswives Haunt
They weigh in on the poverty
steal my neon bracelet
and I love how the Miss Russia
rubs her clit on Stalin venom-store endorphins
a Zima and an 8-ball.
I feed the beast nostalgia all throughout the clownshow
a blue star on my shoulder
the traintracks catching fire.
This beats call me harlequin
This beats call me target
and this can’t be pupaphobia
w/ European foresight
hairy legs, bikinis
a zombie trigger in the skull.
Back then you could order
a rubber woman’s head 2/3 the real size
and I finished up the sex tape
in my purple unitard
working part-time at the mall
and the ghost girls shod my fears
and we swallowed all pearl bottles
and I loved that shared experience
our logic can’t call back.
#Unreal #Poetry #Monsters #Feminism #Jewels
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