ABOUT

CONTENTS

EDITORIAL

ARCHIVE

LAGNIAPPE

MAST

SUBMISSIONS

Three Poems
by Lara Glenum


Carve a Niche in Your Flesh & Store Your Secret Purchases Inside It

A dangerous toy. Not for use by ballerinas shot in the face.
Clean clogged orifices with chainsaw/feather dipped in lye.

Plastic limbs are useful for catching birdshot. Do not act wicked
or do. Insert vermilion or spermatic fluid into slots J & I.

The razor-like part which maims is contained obsequiously
in jelly-like skin (with or without periscopic crotch-eye).

Tube of blue icing is for skying prettily at abominations. Keep
legs open. Do not eat head. Apply tape to mouth. Or mummify.

(Exiled fetus: $3.49 for 4 singles, $8.99 for triplet-twin mix.)
(Siamese twin version available at select boutiques in NY.)

Throne of iron nails, no. Telepathic pet rabbit, yes. Included.
Please recycle any laser-like interstices of sinusoidal joy.


Slainguage

Who reeked of sutures & klepto-schooling?
Who pitched me head-long off the carousel
at the Happy Asp Petting Zoo?
                     *
                     *
                     *
                     * Eat my glissando,
                     detective, & corroborate:
                     *
                     *Who kept
dog-drooling at the beastly mezmerata
                                 while
                     I bleated, defective?
                     Who shot

                the Saint w/the morphos
                      in a bell jar
                           [ * ]
while he
kept screamily & forcing his way into
            the glass ark
            lined w/my vermilion, eel-slippery
                                           skin?


Crushifix

We need some beef-relief. I think we’ll drink
His cream. I think we’ll starve & roseate
A morphic resonance the size (I think)
Of die. Swans can cream, too, inebriate

Of why. Do only we disjoin our lungs?
Will the howls overreach me before we
Can take off our skin & let it be hung
On a mannequin, spritely fitted? “I

Traffic no cadavers,” said the owl
& ate my demi-monde. (“Why go trilling
Into? & spuriously creaming!?”) Our skull-bowl
Is a fountain of electrodes, killing

Nothing, nothing. If he is swan & roseate,
We ovulate skeletons & language cremate.