by A. Minetta Gould

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My blood grows green with gangrene in the reeds.

—Nicholas Moore


Pelvis, irritatingly conjure my vile entry,
O I urinate like grand floats versed in fraud terms.
Ash piles habitats like voyeuristic climaxes
Et. Al, et. Al, et. Al.

My chant reads la’ carte literature
against responsibility’s migrained corpse and I’m glad—
no, I’m lame—no, I’m your errand boy glottaled
vengeance. Trust me. I’m famous.

Ah, boredom’s lament. Butcher perfume
accompanied by pedi enthusiasm
independent of cervical bones: I sell vocable

heritage to who’s hyper-chic and my
boyfriend isn’t your boyfriend but this boyfriend
is. Lure affairs like the Lord into debunk sinsisterisms.


Jesus’ souvenirs clip joule milligrams

& gross national tarter encompasses my brilliance.
That’s right, encompasses my brilliance. Oh & my romance.
Awe Lord, checked roulette dames quit everything
cash mounts up for. I am every secret you ever wanted
crusted under your immense mind. That cave. Oh you.
Oh you. Question marks deserve rigor mortis’s fossil community.
Lunar cinema hordes Jesus’ undies & isn’t apologetic about it. 

Jesus’ underground slip abs horde dune outs
—communes—my remorse. I see trains & long verse
quietly archive de jour surname pleasures.
Jesus’ view is bourbon pleas for roses. For fannies.
For trout. His unmodeled follicles sauté my needs,
His pastel drive shaft is less tangible than brochures
& my soul. His poetry perspirates bacon. 

Renegade language brings back bourgeois journeys,
South Quad Lounge neglected anklets, my fruity
& mourning ennui (for insecurity is the root of peeps).
Let’s pretend proportions are a part of language: make mine light
Or plus-sized maternity vignettes—
What vague exaggerations.
Please assume bruled fondness is soundless &
Vexed like me, an ignored sphinx, a model soliloquy.
Don’t lament Faberge language. Its breakable,
Chanted crayons from the Son’s couch.


Jesus come lay rod, pay plume vexes,
you rich, you mass importance, just pour trestle vexes.
Quiet now, desperate perceptions misprint core baguettes,
sinew avalanche chins come on avalanche’s daughter baguettes.
Rain pewter leg-sayer: no—giblet, no—faun,
no—Son of mourning purple faced bacon:
Do bullion favors for a grotesque ballad.
Distraction plus your front: cruel ballet
Son of literature’s fury delicate transformation tomb
damn glamour poor trout piss bomb
your servant trophy is an incumbent toilette
that pours tired solstice over moist towelettes.
Oh Savant! Oh quail faith! Oh, or a mason’s view
destructed by elixir elemental rumpus cores,
that dance that brain that sang quivering remains non-vigilant,
no don’t lure vexes, join Prussian souvenir postulants,
I know your chauffeur is a cadaver heebie-jeebie
and countless songs bark over your lathe. 


Quad bass celestial Lord, please come on my clavicle
in spirit like germ ants in prouder longs than ennui.
At my horizon brash assessment trout clergy
all noun’s verse du jour noise plus trinket ennui.

Quad bass tyrannical changes, one cacti humbled
on experience, come under chaffed sores
servant battery lickers murmur de la sol agile timidity
especially cognate tetris plantain irises;

Quad bass purest talent as immense as trains,
mince dune vases like prison isn’t emanate beauty,
we’re done people I say in flames people in reign
vengeance tender filaments are our fond crevices;

and your clothes are Coue saturated fury
lamented verse sans ash; hurled
ennui quieted like current sand parties
and here we are, Lord, as gender opponents.

Oh corridors logged billboard tambourine mystique,
defile me in lament’s name: I am ash amid porous
veins, pleasure, angelic trochees, desperation, boutiques,
the sun’s crane inclined to plant the Son’s drama node.