Poems by Amber Rife Author's Links |
Mortification "This place is morally lousy with cupcakes," sighs the girl who was born with her heart on a spoon. "And I don't know what to do about the grapes. They won't fade." Even the girls in "Grooming Tips to Make You Look Like a Spiky Alcoholic" know grapes can slip their skins at will, but she'd rather be persuaded to winter in St. Paul. Snow outside means less snow inside by her logic, the same that asserts certain Carmelites were sainted for losing ten dress sizes in their raptures. Preternatural Spread Some people get a one-way ticket to outer space long before they die. Charles knows his is just a sign of preternatural spread. I think it sounds more like a sign of bad clams, although it could be the gods are angry over the deaths of innocent crustaceans. Charles and I can take a clam god more seriously than most, who are alive but tranquilized out of habit. You'd be nervous too if you lived on a cliff with AK-47s aimed at your imagination. Enough. If we can't get round-trip tickets I'll keep seventeen hot coals smoldering the Almighty in the station. MAD GIRL'S LOVE SONG We started with a casual leer. By then it was too late since charades aren't breakable, even if you drop them. We both said, Please don't listen so there won't be a change to go through. It was a sensuous accident. I think you rocked the boat to prove I was full of sickness. You asked me to crowd into a jacket of stones, so I said whatever it is the faulty say when we can't seal eyes or buildings. |
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