October 2011
28 posts
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Wardrobe Ambitions And A Skirt For Peeling...
Here’s a dress for bee-stung thighs, a milkmaid’s
flounce, one for fumbling in. Cuckoo! or the pop
of mustard seeds in a pan. Sass, like a splurge
of liquid pearl, like something about to happen.
Oh, my multiple futures - Peter Pan collars
and a Can-Can. (All pasts evidenced by a glitch of silk.)
No ballads of woe - a singing girl with a violin!
Come, sleep in these folds,...
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Flirtatious State Seen Through A Hangover
The cherries were to be eaten in a cornfield at dusk. I plump up the pillows and wallow with tonics; waste days tongue-tying stalks into knots. He is gymkhana, rosette and novel, but what can he give save for daydream and stutter? He may dally sweet in my eyes, but I know in my lips he could not dare to kiss me. Wanting feels like too little caviar for breakfast. I...
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“‘Those girls,’ people said, ‘think they can do anything and...”
– Opening line of Save me the Waltz by Zelda Fitzgerald
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Luxe
I attempt to purr defiance, avalanche the pure want
of me, suck thin the lollipop. Snap my chopsticks cleanly.
In my curdling belly, keep down what my thighs
eek for. Substitutes include mink-lined dreams, wafers
of quince or rose. Substitutes are a drowsy let-down,
like an over-pouffed dessert, lacking texture.
Lavish me. I make eyes at myself in train windows.
Think: this is an excellent...
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HDTV « Jody Porter →
Riot poem.
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Yes, she seemed demure –
with her shiny harp-string hair,
the way her throat buttoned-up to mute. But I had seen
her eyes flow over like a vase beneath a left-on tap
and how around her, the men’s patter stumbled
like a high-heeled walk across cobbles. No ordinary
girl. I so keenly wanted to know her, but she was unwearable
to me, with my overt everythings. One night I went...
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