“KEATS WOULD FREAK” AND OTHER POEMS
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SPRINT/TRIP
A stabbing pain, refrain, my abs
from running thickets through
the core, an apple, saccharine,
in leaves like lamb’s ears, queer
again, to grab at lungs like lace.
I set a pace, a dram, a fig.
Dig a chase, a famine.
Over a conscience rigged
to fiddle with contaminates
I took some molly—fell
coddled on a solemn hill.
(Eels siloed in a bank feel
echoed by a brink a dam
where pale fingers chase
the water’s edge, gargle
ferocious and unclear.)
Hail the gelled kaleidoscopic
Hail hydro flask cathedrals
Hail psychotropic palm trees
Hail neon fluffed up bunnies
Hail USB ports round my flowers
Hail poisoned jams teething
I call to mind a sudden shrill
a chill to my boned knees
where luxurious gangrene did
alight on me. Was peasant
for a sober moment, was
genius to a slimy toad. Wrapped
skin in clover and breathed
odalisque. Reticent. Required.
Coming down I saw my green
hands chip away at alien stems:
a cell phone or a jar of walnuts
would have done me great
disservice and nervous though
the room was, all evaporated near.
Nearer still I recompose blown
through dresses and faux fur
gloves, love is for troubadours
and sons of habit cloaking nuns.
Run for the hills that eat you.
KEATS WOULD FREAK
Twin vases carved in eroding
lace and twine I am Hammered
shocks sent through the lauded
lip through which I taste your
whiskey flowers brambles
and you ameliorate past me
tipping not quite over eroding
lace and twine are lithe in bio
luminescent fish colored
clay bray in unison to the ferocious
children about watching their foot
steps wept you would if I were to
part ways in a chip a fissure
a lack of parts hewn solid
scolded in the fire a lyre plain
and hydrating wanes a whisper
the moon eclipses children watching
dreaming hard core tempestuous
negligence I am saying I’m a twin vase
carved to marvel impressive hedge
fund managers and relegate over
my slinky figuration date me
late BC and order me a latte foaming
droves of emancipated children
gloaming to tilt me into ruin
It doesn’t matter if you think your
doomed it only matters what you do
to heave a heavy thought of care
air is lighter in a cloud
and that’s what I’m about I won’t
be your doll baby, baby
worth a couple mil to the right buyer
but like I said a lyre plain and viscous
keep me saturated and circus girls
will hold a candle to the tent minutes
to gamble your frou frou life away
that’s the basis for contempt
dreamt up in computerized tongues
IN THE BROUHAHA
In the brouhaha we garish
flares on wrists and pink
diamonds on ceiling. In
the brouhaha we run antelope
dissect golden apples we
adulterate permed hair.
In the brouhaha there is a special
kind of Special K. In the brouhaha
we osmosis so retro, we disco
glam and silver. Tickertape at
the brouhaha and eating little
pieces of confetti. No forgetting
at the brouhaha, only nostalgia
so little girl’s bedroom, nostalgia
so glass of warm milk, nostalgia
so no tears shampoo. In the brou
haha we laugh like tee hee hee.
In the brouhaha we sell our heat
by electric conduction, by razor
blade finance, by quarter pound
koi fish ponds. In the brouhaha
we are slip and slide, we are
charmeuse overcoats, we eye
ball light fanfare we sip gin tonic
lie chronic in wait, fate ties our
cards sour. In the brouhaha
we rinse foam, we gloam over
neon horizon. We rock our socks
and wheels so glossy, we toss
fragile nightingales, we summon
dead ostriches to contort yoga,
consort with the hierarchy
and banish loose frou frou
blouses. In the brouhaha
you are elastic plastic, my
red wren diver, my rabid
squirrel barker. In the brouhaha
we brew contagion, love, sex
and money. Honey, in the brou
haha we live eggless, drive
Lamborghinis through marsh
mellow fluff. It is enough
to famine sunsetly, it is
enough to exorcize limp
petunias. Only in the brouhaha
we resuscitate the feeble
from the feebleminded.
It is a joke, a curse, a
luxurious famine of want.
CHANT ROMANTIQUE
Three mysterious
mysterious girls
girls jumping over
over cans of vodka
vodka sunrise
sunrise shakes me.
Shake me dumb
dumber and out
out of breath fixed
fixing fixation.
Vexing I find it
it being me ripe
ripened by moon
moonwater on my
my temple dripping
dropped a bomb
a bomb totally worth
its weight its worthiness
and lest I summon
monstrous epithets
or theses into being
being forecasted
casting spells it’s love
L-O-V-E spelling itself
itself to death.
Die so cool and chic
chicks say. I say it
say rain on my parade
I say rain on my parade.
EVIL PARADISE
Ferventless I wander charred
avenues subdued. Welcome to
Evil Paradise. Nightshades bloom
into grooved carbon cardboard
and I eat away a block of blue
petunias. Gloom incessant in
the larynx, pheromones high
in dosages previously rife
with tang and spit. Undress
my glued together torso
and hang on a note falsetto
and shivering. Men come
through the ever calibrating
streets and a butter knife
will slather them gathered in
twine and pineapple. I am
calculating misgivings reheard
over permeable grass
turned ombre. Stay with me
feral ghost. There are infinite
ways to reseam, reconfigure
imaginations wont to suck
on a shallow breastbone.
Honing the gasket I do and do
not find my lot displeasing.
Meager though it may be
pleasure becomes the micro.
Ellen Boyette is a PhD student in English and Creative Writing at the University of Georgia. She received her MFA at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, where she was an Alberta Kelley Fellow and Teaching-Writing Fellow. Her first book of poems, BEDIEVAL, was a finalist for the Slope Editions 2019 Book Prize judged by Solmaz Sharif as well as the CSU 2021 Lighthouse Series Book Prize judged by Shane McCrae. Her work can be found at Bennington Review, The Columbia Review, jubilat, Poets.org, Prelude, and elsewhere.