Tiara

My death drive is oiled
The luscious vibrations of summer have us fucking 
all types of fruit
I had a dream I flipped an Aston Martin 
and took a rib from Adam to make a skirt
Joyce is sewing fake eyelashes again
Savile Row ho
She has tits like a Penthouse loft
Pelvic pronouns. Jerkin’ on the squirter 
like Amyl. C’mon, the stars are fists and mouths
My runway flooded with several inches of water
the morning bean, they call it
We left the pink dresses in the closet
wore the chainmail. Maybe we’re getting 
a little old to be bi—
                              Pump action art, says Eileen
it’s all just a pissy exchange 
spuggy in the tin
like Bronzino I want to write 300 poems 
and read them to my cat in Italian
wear a horn tiara
because the rest of my life
won’t be true love 
because my body 
won’t be a violent opening for long. 

 
Pop

Let’s go to Berlin
beautyland
the Blue Lagoon in Santa Cruz.
How are my tan lines?
Nadia says, bun-bun I want mud, masks
and heads on a stick.
I lost touch with my dirty side.
I want a fat swollen kiss,
a sociopath like Ted Hughes
Birkins. Chanel. Diamonds
small dogs yapping 
on my dick. 
Men never apologize for putting it in the wrong hole.
Who cares. All my favorite albums have bad covers.
I’m besotted, naif, nymphet alumni.  
I call his cock the Matterhorn and read emoji poems.  
I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t keeping score
shooting on sight 
where the torso sits into the hips.

All the winged eyeliner at Sovereign House 
and I still can’t get it up. 
What a drag. Beedle-dee, dee, dee, dee. 
I’ll be your heart 
logo labia, instantly recognizable:
red as Campari
black cat sabotage
ears of hell. 
Tattoos of Betty Page are all the rage. 
Diet Coke, tennis skirts, Head and Prince 
let’s eat cocks like Pop Rocks at the pier 
then lunch with Lydia 
and the Kims. 
Who’s that poet that Pattie adores
the one who was carried off 
fluttering. Tous les garçons 
et les filles—o baby 
the bear belongs 
in the curve of the arm.  
 
Flesh

O to piss in the street like a boy
To run away and live at the movies 
To breathe like the Madonna in heat and smoke cigars with the eel
What will the scholars say when I crisscross the desert 
in search of lingerie to tie them up
I am valentining in spring 
The sun is like locker room brandy jockeying for my thighs
My lips like rattlesnakes 
I suck mudslides
Plague art is all the rage and I’m having the time of my life
Read the room, bitch
Do crimes
I have Laurel Canyon eyes 
                                          &vs.
the cool stichery of Sweden 
I pull the trigger like a princess     twankle, 
twankle, BOOM
The third wave of tourist boats gilded with blood
I chomp at the bit
Primp my flesh dress
An Empire cut brings out the chest
At Bryn Mawr I was taught never to use CAPS
I dawn my lips 
and paint my toes      
red as a manifestos
I cry tears with miraculous properties.