This piece is published as web-exclusive material for issue no. 73, “Consolation Prizes.”
Green tuppence strewn across a land
that couldn’t tolerate
green tuppence.
Then my golden cookies came to the rescue
of a damsel
herself named Cookie.
Our boutique is rad. Call me bunion.
Butt extends beyond
where trousers end.
Dead woman rummaged through
pocketbook at the top
of the pocked stairs.
Ferocious stubble undoes wan
pedestrian’s equanimity.
Crying girl squelches urge
to vomit beside aban-
doned train trestles.
Black wire mesh around scaffolding depicts
naked man’s splayed
crucified limbs—allegory
aimed at gullet.
Maître d’s pants—slayers—more snug
than plaid Presley
tart-pants I spent unpoetic
hours struggling to love.
Slain habitually by strangers’
atomizer-ambient
sexuality—my hobby
is mortification
by fleet comparisons. Poached egg’s remnant
stickiness on upper
lip not an apotheosis.
Mr. Death, without brush or pencil you trace
rear’s curvature.
Elements of Style discarded as rubbish in stairwell
pungent with chlorine
and kitty litter.
Unkind Robin around the block, girl I stigma-
named carrot top, my paisley-
femme revenge hemmed
in our shame kinship.
Do pilgrimage and predilection belong in the same
nervous system, and is
this photo offensive?