Erica Anzalone

Mise en Scène

 

          That's easy,

he said. Licked three fingers, bent back to wrist.

All the way to where I was Beth, in grass light, retch.

In bikini in smorgasbord in mise-en-scène.

 

I sent pale tires, bacon bits, mildew. I fed

her from a dropper like a bird. She locked

like airports, bolted like rawhide. Wouldn't let.

Even if cellar, even if lawn ornament embossed

 

her pilot, flicker goat. I tripped we were home,

not flood or umpire. I tripped we were plugged

runway, shine package, salvaged hymn.

Shrub who bared the sharpest fang.

 

 

 

Corona Discharge

 

Or sucked and wrung saint blood out,

hung her dimpled on the back

of sutra bastard's front door. What root

takes hold in plaster, Shedrack,

 

or roof opens for trumpet head to pop,

or woof woof goes colonel wolf. Tell me

about fire. Jinxed labia, raven rock.

I know how lethal bicycles can be.

 

Teflon can kill. Holes in the ozone

are lassoes thrown from curvy stars

that don't care about my stolen

heart gone peekaboo on bumper cars,

 

her razor tits, her B.O. pussy wormed,

or yours (shitlace) either, even if it burns.

 

 

 

Infidel Echoes

 

Violin and bitten, from chaste to chase,

lied again to lie again with him.

Chapeled in chairs, čert the devil in Czech.

Where were we then…location

 

and locomotion, broken broken broken

on my tongue. Left dumb and lusty.

Where were we then? Hummed a halo,

goodbyes good angel, cleft palate, hello.

 

Violet apples, tried to hell with it, spit

colors, splayed dollhouse, rolled votive

surfeit and counterfeit, surfeit and –

Where were we then? Red meridian

 

unhanded, blue variant, vervain where

blossoms rain into ran, blitzkrieg where