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I Find Your Jewel Jammed Inside Me and More I Find Your Jewel Jammed Inside Me trembling trainwrecked 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 pussy blossom. 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. Untrue Hunger 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 rape’s mimicry. 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. Fingerpower 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 skinny, pink-banged 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 Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter.
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