Roxi Xmas

Post image for Roxi Xmas

by Horror Sleaze Trash on January 16, 2011

Misti rainwater-lites has a fuckload of books available at & Follow her blog Y’all Versus Y’all.

(or: grave unrest on novembriated
blue moon with tea on toes)

My words my words my mumble crumble magic size seven

words will kill me because I will eat them and that is not

what they were meant for.

Already my face is the green of a North Texas sky

before tornado touches ground and fucks shit up.

Do not hold me accountable for all of this!

Have a heart, Chung…it IS awful. Ezra knew the news.

News of that weight and heft is never old.

It is April all year long. Mermaids don’t sing.

The peach pickers protest the death of their fantasies.

I cannot afford the art on dentist’s walls so with

cheap paint and sugar walls I make my own.

My words will crawl like worms de muerte

on my no count triflin’ lyin’ tongue.

The worms have not begun their dance.

Last night I killed a fly with Ed Hardy cologne.

The kind that smells like death in a Valentine box with one chocolate left.

Last night I dreamed up a new spell but it is too terrible to speak.

Like a bouquet of fake sunroses from the Dollar Tree,

this is all

I have

to offer.


my errant right nipple pops free from polka dot bra in protest ” i ain’t no clown!” it seems to cry husband enters room loud & dumb reeking of popcorn dumping clean clothes on bed ”ah, the tiny glow of your
phone” he says i should love him for many reasons but i am home from the wars in cracking pieces and love is ice water and solitude whatever the price -_—_— unlike lectures unlike invasive odors unlike unununlike sex that seems like science at work i am a mermaid space haunt & i unlike mundane coming to my plate in greasy bloody hamburger chunks like lagoon, inky like star splash like spontaneous shiver like revelatory walks in magic sand none of this conducive to sedated cake walk expected of me

“Freak Not Lest You Be Freaked”

Come here, Shane.

Come back, Shane.

I love you like fire ants marching

to Zion inside my ass.

All day long the jukebox has

played our songs.

“She Bop.”


“Across 110th Street.”

“Here Comes Your Man.”

“Andy’s Chest.”

“Return To Sender.”

“Angel Flying Too Close To The Ground.”

Didn’t I blow your mind that day in the werewolf cantina?

Everyone was fanged and furry except for us.

I showed you my legs all salty and seaweedy to prove

that yes indeed I am a mermaid.

I love you. Take it like the man you are.

Take your ball but don’t go home.

I am home.

I am mama.

Don’t hate me because I am voluptuous and needier

when inebriated.

This is common on this side of town.

Listen, amigo…the train roars by and this makes the tears

splish splash into glass of chenin blanc.

I want to be going somewhere fast

instead of dying somewhere slow.

I know, amigo. I know.

We have more in common

than you imagine.


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