I won’t stay in one place long
I’ve got the wanderlust.
I wear a gold dress
divorce on the forest green carpet
but whom can I thank
the blonde girl from Iceland
rotting so fast
in the cold stink of fish?
Maybe it shakes but I’ll get back into it
my thoughts are sterile
addicted to salt
fur and fake pearls on the boat to Brazil
You can grant yourself freedom
or as your blood boils
still be ruled by beguine or bossa nova.
It’s a trade off this summer
return #2 to fall in love with a sunset
or an arpeggiator
drum fills at dawn
as the cat on your bed
left all alone
morphs to another.
Low-key chime crime resign
and one more B-movie
where I watch amnesia
circus claws/circus nails
and can’t get the backbeat to work.
I’d like to say I’ll write you a boogie
before you disappear
but I’m still stuck on that night
riding my pink bike past the abandoned country club
across the river with binoculars
the smoky house of the boy who Frenched me because
that was how actresses kissed.
He could imitate any style
in black gloves in the lobby of the old hospital
and rumor has it he hit his white cat over the head
and hid her in the freezer.
I prefer analog
and not just for the ease of the arpeggiator
not just because I hate options.
At the beginning of the movie
all the furs the three eggs
and the jewelry.
I thought she had to be rich
and then the white keyboard disappeared also
and all the lawn guys did nothing
while my eyes just rolled back in my head.
Fire this up once in a while
and I mean it when I say
play with an echo.
I’m homesick for illness
aqua blue foam around my infected bones
in the glow of the multicolored X-ray Xmas lights.
and it’s the summer of crying a little bit longer
pretending you could be top blonde
and how do you do that Marilyn-style beauty
orange champagne sad but no hair on your body
and how do you rip off that cross?
No time like the present only comes once
lime-fizz tear ducts fire and ice at the injection site.
I wear a skimpy bikini pale like Vampira
I can’t take big ideas
sun sun sun as the photographer’s chopping my head off
until daddy says I’m a missed wave
but laughter to slaughter I listen to the death crawl
see the blonde boy who wanted me
dangling a crab. I have more desire, distinctive
during your acid trip. I still burn with my sex
swim over the shimmering tiles.
The men drink around me. I’m not changing to suit you
I throw on the red jumpsuit, wax lips
I can’t bear the hot pink. Nothing I say in this box
has the core of distraction
and how long until I become your Scopitone blonde?
So much monstrosity black sailor pajamas
lock me in my bedroom peach walls
a pink lamb you tried to orchestrate the finale
bossing me to summer beauty
but the music cut off and my crotch cleaned itself.
I get wet again and I stick a stuffed animal
under my top. I get wet when I think of a pat on the head
how I want to hear every stab wound.