I know I recite too quickly
but have a look between the covers
at our special women’s section
we have aardvarks and mars bars
and ativan and percodan and
perky cans (of course) but you’ve
no need to look there
you’re special, I mean
I think you’re really something
stop pawing me up and down now
I don’t give a fuck if you’re Italian
just keep your eyes peeled
for that secret move
watch it: I can poke
just like you
I’m somebody’s fun-time girl
Somebody’s knick-knack
Somebody’s cake
Hi, I’m the boss’s girlfriend
I’m curved like the inside of a bowl looking outwards
I’m hanging on a rack
Laden with ornaments
A pussy float for rotting garb
Pleased to meet you, my style
Inside I’m tepid like a runny Sunday
Ever present in glossy tint
I am a steel spike glinting
a lot of people want to have things done to them
manipulated in specific by the hands of others
a lot of willing people means a lot of ready hands
if not skillful
a lot of people want to mash you like potatoes lovingly
without kitchen instruments or clothes
a lot of people want your skin on skin, your dirty rashes
a lot of people probing rarely ever hissing no
stupid in self-portrait came
haughty, ripe with asking
rocked an illiterate disorder
ideas flew
said I’m a pink piano
an orgasm, I mean organ
cocked an anemic wink
dried out in stupid clothes
battled the wicker
waved hi to the nomads
smiled, set traps
thought about the afternoons
cut things in quarters
noses
déjalo quieto que no es tuyo
I crush on this boy like mad
like my laden ovaries expand to fill my feet
like my swollen fingers expand to fill the air
between me and him, like I grab him
between lips
and swallow him until his mother
forgets she had a son
Gonna show you what you’re doing to us, Maria. Maria mewls like a rotten child and bucks. All slow flesh, all pliant oooh, discarded self. A tangle of limbs and bends and sleepy night rollover push back and rub. A slappy shake, a quiver, a quake. The urgency of one hundred and forty-seven sirens. What are you doing to us, Maria. A grip, a grasp. A grab, a squeeze, a dig, a bite. A bit, a bind. A bidden slap.
nobody likes your posturing
i mean the way you sit down to write
distilling so-called
existential truths
no, more than that
everybody wants your funny
your siren song
a floppy hat to signal the way
you in the front, with your eyes open
you don’t know where you’re going
you’re going to get us killed
ah, fuck it
nobody wants to see the inside of your nose
with a flashlight
when you’ve been picking at it
with a penknife
nobody wants you to speak in absolutes
nobody likes the way you hang your head
everyone hates that you’re so this
we’re all ticking our boxes
The salt’s gone hard, in the cellar
Salt for one, too much salt for one
Once salt was expensive
And hard to come by
Wasn’t it? Salt?
Like spices
Like thick milk in glass bottles
But I don’t remember that
Myself
I’m dipping into
The saline consciousness
Of humanity
i let a stranger tongue my face
and ever since I feel like puking when I think
i let a stranger fondle my ass
on the outside of my little jean skirt
and ever since I feel like shitting my pants
i smell him like a wasp smells a bear
and my insides want to projectile through my nose
because when i say i let
i mean i invited
like in the movies, when you have to invite the vampire into your home
only it wasn’t a vampire
or a teenager
just a big man with a big boner
and me
with the perfect boner-shaped opening
overripe for the slaughter
and ever since i feel like dying when i think
or maybe living some more
i got his number in my phone
maybe i will call him
and listen to my ears bleed lubricant
let him fuck me, live inside me
while the walls melt
and in the morning
nothing happens
and i don’t smell him
while i continue charades
and i forget
how i was swollen
not with regret but with acceptance
how i was prodded
by a strange white cock
and inside my girl
there is nothing
and inside my woman
there is death
and inside
there is outside
and outside
there is nothing
All this and more
could be yours if
your wheelbarrow
wheels over my
pretty pretty toes.
Harmful if swallowed
particularly at night.
Hey. Hey? Hey
don’t bogart the
nachos, dude.
My urethra has
swollen to the girth
of three octopus
tentacles.
Large purple ones.
Clean, teen scene,
serene. Obstacled.
Tentacled. And a
little bitty shitty we’ll
call Billy, that spits
his sputum, spurts
his semen, strains
his sternum, into the
basin after dark.
not picking up anything
circling and not picking up anything
why is it that whenever there’s a word
that word is to give to you
as if I weren’t enough for flowers
now you have to have my buds
even if
her stories
are longer
than mine