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Contributor Notes




Leopoldine Core

Leopoldine Core




Leopoldine Core

 

FLOWER

 

 

It’s weird to be a flower made of meat.

 

A really red carnation. People smile.

 

They like the idea of someone crouched over the barrel of my youth.

 

They like when I eat a chicken leg.

 

They chuckle at the occasion of meat eating meat.

 

At home the ghosts aren’t as frank but the way they look at me,

 

I know they are thinking that’s MEAT.

 

The hungriest ghost I know lives in the drain.

 

He is skinny but fat around the middle

 

a quietly seeking gaze in wet darkness.

 

I look deeply down to him and whisper

 

I’m hungry too. Nothing. That’s the thing.

 

It’s the song of a bit of food walking around

 

with an appetite.

 

The universe is a creep

 

don’t you THINK!!!!

 

A cool white planet in the distance.

 

I have been told that I should drink

 

or fall in love to write poetry

 

and I have peed on the street.

 

This is nothing like a drug portal to poetry.

 

My druggy self was fat and mute.

 

The camera was rolling but all that footage lived underground.

 

It is the voice in my head

 

the oldest voice.

 

She calls me up and I sit patiently

 

with a grey flame in my eye.

 

And angry I guess. I ghost.

 

Like I have a little shit in my mouth.

 

There’s a tendency toward scorn

 

in my family that I have to temper in myself.

 

I have to soften the trigger

 

which is lurid as my mother.

 

Even at the stoplight as I’m gazing.

 

I HAVE TO KEEP WRITING. LOOK AT THAT ANGRY PIECE OF MEAT. A MAN POINTS. YOUR MOUTH IS LIKE A MOVIE THEATER HE ADDS. I’M WALKING DOWN THE STREET. CHICKEN LEG IN A PINAFORE. THE WORLD CREAKS. SOMEONE’S REACHING IN MY MOUTH, A TOTAL STRANGER. YOU NEVER KNOW WHEN YOU’LL DIE AND THAT’S THE JOKE. THAT’S WHAT SUICIDE IS, SOMEONE IS SHOUTING THE PUNCH LINE FIRST. Only there’s no shout, just a hole, other people talking. One day I’ll wake up and the universe will know. Men will know. God will. The world will creak and my brain will empty its colors into the air.

It will be morning. Is there a perfect time to die?

It won’t be the perfect time. I’ll die. 

 

 

 

 

FRANCES

 

 

I was this dirty little penny when you met me

 

but I’ve been rubbing up against you

 

and now I’m shiny and you’re dirty.

 

 

 

 

THE HOLE

 

 

I’m a freak

 

in a nightgown

 

and outside

 

a cool garden drips.

 

All this wasted time

 

could be full of something

 

but I’m always on the rug.

 

I’ve had good ideas

 

and placed them decorously

 

around the room,

 

all the little fish still

 

wriggling on their hooks.

 

I’ve had more good ideas

 

and kept them in the liquid

 

of my mind until they all

 

started to rot.

 

I’ve made a snack and

 

I’ve called a dead friend.

 

I don’t like everything I do.

 

I’ve let all the ghosts

 

feel me up

 

and it reminds me

 

of being on the subway

 

the things people will do

 

if you give them the green light

 

and then you do.

 

Well I do.

 

And then they touch me

 

and I pretend not to notice.

 

That is my joy.

 

It’s underwater all the time.

 

But it has not been a total waste

 

all this silence.

 

I think it’s more of a steak

 

than a hole.

 

And anyway

 

ITS NOT SILENCE

 

since now there’s no room

 

in the world unmarked

 

by human noise.

 

 

I’ve thought hard about this.

 

I’ve dug a dirt hole in my own

 

bedroom and lived there

 

rubbing my clit with a penny

 

under my blanket

 

there’s an old sandwich

 

and a jewel.