a TOAST
to fairness, justice, and your pussy—
that is, the right to pack our boxers
as we gather together
on this party platter of pseudo-porcine plasma,
i’m reminded of how it feels
to step on a curled-under brown-n-crusty maple leaf,
but because it was after a rainstorm we slept through,
it folds into a wet envelope
beneath your wellies.
oh, it feels
like Junji Ito drilling then filling abandoned molars,
silent film sewing circles and El Debarge’s falsetto.
a waddling flock of maybes
threatens our honeycomb hippodrome,
but i must riff our praises: we matched
their violet coughs with lice,
philosophies with Socratease,
Aris-thot-le and the Haus of Lyceum
yes, i AM
a casting couch dying of clown lung
held together by mushroom gills
and yes, i AM
infested
with tooth worms
unrealised orgasms
and tumours made of Skittles
but let us celebrate!
come come,
shave your scapulas into unblessed altar bread
and scoop up some strawberry-fig chrysotile.
gorge yourselves! then blow up
your bladders into balloons,
and push any two twins together
to make a queen
Portrait of the Artist as The Denny’s Wicche
after Buffalo ‘66
i’m painting my nails/with pistachio crumbles/it’s the closest/to ice blue eye glitter/the closest
/to Christina Ricci on tap/in tap/class in/bowling alleys/in jump click and scissor steps/some badgoodfella/says he’s moonage nightdreaming/that’s just/a sleep/i’m painting/a motel slip/left behind/bathroom carpet imaginary/i’m painting help me love/minidisc areolas/gerbil pouchjaw /eyelashes that curl/the wrong way/uppercut dilated pupils/moonpie child/dance shoes/chasse payphone cardigan chills/i’m painting/you/in well-fitting sports bras and a black puffer jacket/
drinking oat milk hot chocolate/with smashed avocado lips/i’m painting/the new menu please
eat/my heart is a lofthouse cookie/and teach me to craterfunk waltz,/moonchild/in a milkwhite gown?/my nails are dry but i’m still/painting the fluttony and the pudding crust/my pudding crust moonpiechild/ellipsis orbiting/in glasstic beads/i’m painting and she’s sucking/Sisyphus/that is,
his jawbreaker/you think it keeps getting smaller and smaller but why would it and how could it
and the happiness is in the fucking i have cider and witnesses who claim that’s a lie—
Bitchin Betty Thinks Lindsay Lohan’s Dead
after "Bitchin Betty" by Kate Luther
highheeling up tinfoil calves, corseting lobster claw, you’re potential,
a pescatarian Lesbian Power Authority minus feet plus a baby
doll that blinks the second it falls backwards yeah you’re hair all acetone
wearing chests like hats yeah peach cloche knockers, sequin nipples
splooged about the bed like duct tape wallets doin the laundry dissolve
in Limited Too denim get up get out you’re the cactus, small and never
propagated, Bella Swan brought to the westest wettest coast you move on
move on wiggle through the mesh, shakeweight the neon orange fungi
Miss Ma’am there’s no doubt you’re the sexiest nosebleed I ever did see,
a Divine designed toy poodle fencing chameleons with cocktail swords.
you’re duochrome tinsel
and im all wrong in scallop studded Cartier
frosted glass tastes like jalapeño Pringles if you bite hard enough you’re
right you Hollywoulda coulda shoulda filled your lungs with rib sequins,
gold curtain tassels, wet socks, tiramisu and Corinthian column shavings
bitchin betty bitchin betteigh bitchin betti
it’s all the same in your bitchin
bette davis eyes. with you eyes are just eyes are just eyes im just eyes
eyes too thin for a light shag too fat for a shag rug you ask from your bed
for Harrods sourdough why did you crouton the Roquefort runaways,
nightstand pearlgnashed curbsides, featherdust the sill-latent peppercorns
in eight ply ostrich. so do i plastic for your presents, Keira Knightley
satin green, acrylic pleaser heel til you let me in let me in your bed
don’t wanna grow up
can we pushpop clit?
i wanna get out
disco finger?
HEY
if i you’ve got lips
at least let me kiss kiss
take me away
