Olivia Cronk




Gloom Window of Oh Tiny Exist:


Scrape me my field. How I.

Spoon the dread

into the tea.

How comes my mouse carriage.

Fuck. It's just that

cracked clutch of ponies

loose again.

Get me a fizz, stuffed-woman.

Don't be dropping your hay

no more.

I s'pose I like most

a dolly chapter

in this cold house.

Fine young aunties

maybe could tend

to my ruffles.

Maybe could till supper.






The so adorable fangs

guessed up the polly

from a deep

dark murder of a purse.

Borrow my winter,


I cannot bear another haul

of this kind.

Grim mama,

my paper dove call.

My fevered few:


In the Forest of Hooves,

I may catch you

a strand.

But I'll hurl it back,

throw old beer

on its mismatched clasps.

I am a selfish trinket box

of a lady,

a cheap counterfeit of medallions.


Curtained Gothic


Flung creature. Hangman wanting

my wisp-wasp hair & wallpaper.

Eyeing my greened knee socks.

A regular Rudolph Valentino.

O, ho, the underworld of crushed velvet:


Lace arm hooking through

spooked antler-room.


Making bank, now, hey, patsies?


For I am two-tail. I am as flung as.

This lace arm thang hooks my darling

in a lawn dance. Bats so ever my bob.

(Afterall, a man in such a condition.)

Hangman building

our gate. Our pig puzzle. The House

guzzles gold. Sends it jingling

in perfumed envelopes

to a television monk.

Clever one, my hang, my leg.