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ELLA McCRYSTLE
Worshipping with Burroughs I was your instant disciple when I read "Language is a virus. . ." eating my lunch naked, plums dripped onto paper -- vile sucking as we junkie women do, tie still hanging from my arm. Those must've been the days -- just to get smacked by you, one-on-one or threesome, I wouldn't care. Fuck morality, sentiment and sexual preference, drag us all. . .everything a step higher. I wanna be the pop in your skin, shoot through The Priest's veins, nod to tools shared in ignorance. Push poppy field days when you were my confessor, my blood seeded with your words. There are a few more viruses now, Bill. They're swimming in my veins. Even you - so wise - so down and dirty underground didn't warn me of this sort of end. Frank O'Hara Gets My Reuptake The doctor keeps handing me pills - some very pretty: lime, striped with night or grandmother's peach. I nod and smile, knowing I will dump them, along with the others, into my dresser when I get home. At the next visit he explains through gritted teeth that pills left in drawers will not affect synapses and serotonin reuptake. I smile and thank him, fingering the follow-up card, then drop it while I laugh at Frank O'Hara saying "oh Lana Turner we love you get up" in my head. The fancy doctor with his poor diplomas later worries that I am hoarding the pills for an early demise. I tell him "drugs cause cramp." He stares blankly visit after visit, not understanding. I have no serotonin to take or reuptake. I am made of arias and Symphonies Fantastique, poems, movies, runes, mud, ginger slices and sound. Finally I just tell him I'm stuck in g-flat minor, then I take another card and more pills home to my drawer. Once there, I tell Frank. He understands. Riding Jack Kerouac We're not hitchhiking though, not across country, just driving a Maryland drag - me and my dharma bum god. Jack's telling me about roads and being on them. I'm reading all the signs. NO TRESPASSING DRINK BECK'S BEER ROSES $18/doz - NOT RED I say, gimme a poem, Jack. I'd rather a poem than a red rose any day. Jack tells me for the 211th time No time for poetry but exactly what is I start to counter with his own words 18. Work from pithy middle eye out, swimming in language sea but stop myself when I see DON'T TOUCH THE WIRE on this black-eyed susan road under an azure sky, and I say, Jack, the cornfields ARE a poem; let the tiger-lilies puncture your eye. AUTHORIZED VEHICLES ONLY Or better yet, just turn in here, forget poetry and the language sea, make me Believe in the holy contour of life and fuck me in this unauthorized car. Past Her Prime What's a pornlet to do after she's old, her hips hang handles, she's broken teeth, and her lipstick crawls into cracks? There's no insurance for chicks who never made the grade of "Queen" or "Star." Life doesn't offer room for women who boffed 700 men at camera-friendly angles cooing clichés under assumed names. Ashlyn Gere on X-Files, Traci Lords completely mainstream; the rest have gone gray, wrinkled and wide with nothing to show but lonely young boys and drooling men behind curtains with VCRs and DVD players. They wouldn't believe this old hag is the flickering seductress they dream about at night while cumming in towels. Ella McCrystle lives in Baltimore, MD as the proverbial "woman who collects cats." Her rabbit actually did eat her Child Within. Publications include: MiPoesias, Snow Monkey, Wicked Alice, Citizen32, The Erotica Readers & Writers Association, Quintessence Magazine, MiPo~Print, Ink Magazine, The TMP Irregular, Writer's Hood, The James River Poetry Review and others. She has been scribbling notes others insist on calling poems for a few years, and she's considering getting serious about it. Poetry Web page: Invoking the Serpent: http://thehiss.net |
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© 2004 Underground Voices |
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