Roxi Xmas

by Horror Sleaze Trash on September 14, 2011

Misti Rainwater-Lites writes and YouTubes a fuckload. Watch her videos, buy her books, send her surprises. Gracias.

Extra Salt

The hair salon is hopping.
You would think it was
a giddy frog in love with
spring’s screaming bounty.
The place is fat with chat.
Outside the door the world
is sizzling in the killing chair
and all the jokes
reek of desperation.
Inside gum is snapped
tips are traded
recipes swapped
lovers and husbands and children compared
roots retouched
dead ends snipped
curls flattened
pubes waxed.
It’s a rosy rainbow bubble womb
of snoozing denial,
that’s what it is.
This microcosm margarita
sloshing slush
on defenseless feet.

Apple & Arrow

Was William Tell a real person?
Perhaps.
His statue is real enough
and easy to find
in Altdorf, Switzerland.
The story goes: rebellion,
remarkable aim.
Schiller wrote his life.
People flock to New Glarus, Wisconsin
each Labor Day weekend
to see the what.

It’s Done With Mirrors

The burning point.
Bye, paper. Bye.
Mountain mirrors
heat castles
and this
makes for
lovely baths.
Initiation rite
for those princesses
is stark
with symbolism.
Down the tunnel
into waiting
electrocution suit.
First there will be
a monument
to climb.
Steep. Engraved with names of
the noble and grain gobbling dead.
Rats gobble grain, too, and they die
without names.
If princesses don’t sizzle
they go on to fuck and bitch
like the rest of us.

Tale Too Often Told

Quite the oasis, this.
Refreshed he leaves her
lounging in the rented bed
for the crackling desert
that is his marriage.
In the night
soft as velvet
forgiving as silk
from wine and candles
and languid fucking done right
she is Goddess of Desire.
Mornings are harsh.
Administrations are stoic rote.
Mornings make her
Cast Off Crone.
He can’t get dressed and out
the door fast enough.
Her power is terrible to behold
in the dust of death breath dawn.
It’s the tale too often told
over coffee and stale donuts.
In the end he leaves
and she stays
twisted in those
dirty sheets.

Roxi’s Vanity

Peering hard in haunted mirror Roxi sees
primeval fog orchids killer birds
she wipes
the glass
and finds

san francisco soup
lovers lost in neon’s
fogged pre-dawn
bridges brilliant
with suicide gleam

again she
wipes away the
smirking steam

to find ted hughes
pleading his case
in overwrought sonnet
wringing the blood spotted hands
no tears will wash clean

shuddering she searches
for the moon marked visage
she calls
her own

but in this mirror
she is but a minor phantom
outspooked by
greater ghost gods,
more peopled visions

Feeble Witchery

All the doors are locked and in my bare
feet I cannot kick them down.
My pounding fists drip blood on thick
ancient carpet decorated with eyes.
They smell me coming in the stagnant air.
They lurk they watch fat with wait.
Yellow lights blink then die.
I am mocked by the cherry EXIT
I will never reach.
Too feeble in my witchery to fly from
this sticky place
I grope blind
buying a palm’s worth
of life’s last ticks.

Uncle Jerry’s Evening

The bachelor slams his fist down
on the tiny snail crawling across
the table he inherited from his sister.
Fucking jerk, it was going for the ham
or the whiskey, who knows which.
He feels like all his life he has been
killing things and wonders if he should
feel at least a little guilty.
All those ants, gnats, flies, roaches, spiders,
scorpions, snakes, rabid dogs.
Thinking about all the things he has killed
he gets so confused he begins to sob.
“God god god. Who made God? What is God
made of? Bastard could be a termite for all
I know!”

Lint in the Navel

God of America help me.
I am not Lee Greenwood.
I am not Dolly Parton.
I am not Toby Keith.
I am not Paris Hilton.
Goddamn it this “want fries with that?”
conspiracy is bringing my Cherokee ass
down
down
down
to that place where miscreants
and perverted rodeo clowns
fuck around in pina colada chat rooms
and get drunk on fuzzy navel wine coolers
ensconced safe as mice in section 8 condos.

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