“The first time Vlad III bums
a stick of gum off you,
you’ve got a story for your buddies.
What do you have the second time?
Two less sticks of gum.”
You need it more than him.
What is a man? (A miserable etc. etc.)
It isn’t worth the goth cred.
Tomorrow you’ve got
ragtime Tetris practice with
the queen of whoever and
whatever. She’ll be waiting
in the cabin getting her
hair gripped and pulled by the
shattered shellac seraphim.
How else will you pay your
fare to the gryphon?
The cabin will freeze
and Queen Bitch will
be eternally stuck mid-orgasm.
That is, unless you keep your
pay the hardworking bird-thing,
and get over there to
stoke her furnace
with the pages
of Vlad’s favorite novel.
Raspberry Pi Fields (Sympathy For)
Two dripping red cross halos hover over the marionette child. Fingers stained with mercury, she jerks
her sister’s thorn-ravaged wrist away from the thicket. Static snow falls all around and piles on the
holy discs, now monochrome. The girls pick up the overflowing Broadcom bowls and leave to
hibernate. The field of printed circuit boards, unborn berry bushes, and long-abandoned libraries
drowns in electric moonlight.
A box at my door
is soaked with blessed red juice.
Exploited saints sleep.
Ensuring the Existence of Tomorrow in 5 Simple Steps
1. Tread on that fucking snake.
2. Scrape the putrid scum from the inside of your fishtank and lather up the serpent. Vipers are not
self-lubricating and fear the latent high school homosexuality they detect in the substance. Slip him out
of his skin and repeat until no layers remain.
WARNING: In the event of resistance, restrain the head and rattle separately. You do not have
time for that. I don’t either.
3. Tie him into a scalebound monkey’s fist. Be sure to pull tight, and check page 14 of your scout
handbook for additional directions and tips.
4. If the snake views his new life as a knot as a method to garner sympathy, let him believe it and twirl
the pathetic fist above your head.
5. Let loose! Launch your serpentine shitstain into the nearest field of coquelicot, fertilizing
something of worth.
Paradise is Lossy
Yesterday evening I wrote then read Paradise Lost
chained inside the back compartment of a Game Boy Color
caked with alkaline corrosion and exposed by a long lost battery door.
Launch your cotton-tipped flèche and jab me with vinegar
neutralize my bindings and de-cuff my fingers forced into a vulcan salute.
Free me and I’ll run to the nearest library with a stolen notebook, pen, and not a single shred of respect.
Yes, I’ll take the Teaches of Peaches
bastardize the jist and squeeze it into Milton’s margins
leaving my plagiary paraphrases soaked and stained with sweet nectar.
On the PlayStation 2 standing between me and Nicolet National Forest
I’m a disintegrated rubber cumslut
in a Walkman repair tutorial.
I like my dykes with a hardware fetish,
and Sony serves my fancy
for $299 and a bottle of Liquid Swords.
I asked her to wear that dusty blue vertical stand
it matches the plate around her USB ports.
I wish she’d step on me
and leave a spironolactone-flavored bruise
in the shape of a basswood heart.
She balances in front of me, a black plastic monolith
and I ask her to move. No shit, she doesn’t.
She orders me to get on my knees. No shit, I do.
Illegal primes flash on my irises
and Sony Music Entertainment brings down her heel.
Rainy Day Women “1966-200X”
I’m sorry Ms. Jackson—I am for real
your daughter she cried for Leelah I did
too. remember Ms. Alcorn? I know you
don’t. did you use facebook? I know you did.
her face was an orange on The Pirate Bay
her last dress was a degraded jpeg
dilate dilate dilate until she’s a
Gaussian blurred match bent in on herself.
I never meant to make your daughter cry
like you never meant to make your daughter.
and I look at all the lonely people
on the train under the old Atlantic.
I brought Eleanor Rigby a firecrest
its mother a squire to the thief in the
night who took her head—the jar by the door.
its plumage hiding a bra padded with
the five inflated fingers of Sir Duke
the warbler rode her casket to the church
and heard the sermon, not in a mood for
sentiment. the soggy cardboard agreed.
he asked me my name and in a light pink
voice I said “Lola”—he asked me to spell
the name I’d just made up: “L-O-L-A”
he took me to dance but it was silent.
he took me to his room but I was mute.
he got down on his knees and opened his
hole with the tied-knot cherry bomb and his
lifeless parted lips, eager and waiting.
“Close your eyes, honey, I’m gonna make you
a man.” I popped him a little blue pill.
and here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson
missus soft as lukewarm snow without a
shot at the lottery or split tendons
not a god blessed shade of no. where now
a harvest mouse in a blonde on blonde scarf
asks my ear where you burrowed this winter
I was told to not but I did anyway
if she comes to your melting door, old friend
tear the N-Gage from her hallowed paws, girl
and on her behalf, type “candleja