Worshipping with Burroughs
I was your instant disciple when I read
"Language is a virus. . ."
eating my lunch
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
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.
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
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
© 2004 Underground Voices