Revival, reunion when I think of you by Audrey Victoria

I drop down fifty flights of stairs and the moon beckons me nowhere except
where a sight-seeing tourist from the inside is exploiting my garnered limp.
His gullet is adorned with crumpled skin and mole colored jewels.

Inside my nose is stinging and I take it as a sign that the
scorpion has just crawled inside. And my tongue will speak words
of models drawing out my past vision of vernacular suicide.

I crawl to the coffee shop and order shots of espresso until my chest explodes.
I wait for you by the front window but you're nowhere to be seen.
I assume it's because I gained weight again and I feel fat again.
Since I quit mind surfing I don't ride as smooth anymore.
I must confess, back when abyssinian hands stroked my laden back
I used to mind fuck you in the alley and you didn't know it.

Limping and leaving, my heart stops and I am clutched to a street light.
The fat gullet trumpet vine has wrapped around my bronchial tubes again.
Manipulation is a tired tactic and I prefer pure fucking instead
I will wait for you half past five next weekend if I am not dead by then

I will merge into you but not frighten you.
I will sing to you gently but there will be no song even if you ask for one.
There will be no moment for images because you will be blindfolded
I will leave you one foot to find in the garbage. Most importantly
I don't know how to love. It's your crumbled clutch, displacement
with boring sentiment. Yeah, it's that role I play.

Inside I know that flash you want of that woman standing sprawled
dripping clean with wet and glitter all over your mommy's blanket.
What a coward you've become. God, all gracious, the women
The women just want to screw you all over. The vision of their
Robert Plant Fantasy. Go on, bro, grunt and give them your disease.

My skin is still smooth and I still flutter like a pixie
all over your jewels, stealing them. The yawn of the guitar still runs down my leg
and as the new moon raises the energy depletes from your
soul merging with mine accordingly.

Most likely you will have a nightmare about me tonight.
a hallway will rise up in magenta and run like a trumpet vine,
run from your toes to your abdomen to down your trachea
where then you will blossom orange, finally spreading
something half beautiful, even if you're still a weed.

Art by Audrey Victoria

(click to enlarge)

By Audrey Victoria

Three Pieces by Audrey Victoria

At night we morph into able-bodied creatures

At night we morph into able-bodied creatures
Lionness, the woman, substitutes your scum with a gas mask.
We’re just force-feeding each other into the sleep toned
tones of Agnes in contemporary society sitting on the stoop
of life’s hurdles, eating blueberry mush on a paper plate.
Sedna houses no moon but instead a place where I imagine the mattress
lying in the middle of 10,000 years until a full rotation
and a little bit of astro-dust, fine ash that really likes our nasal cavities.

Thanks to magazines I now taste like pineapple and you like me better.
I forgot to eat cookies because Sedna only wants skinny girls, not women
girls with desert rose painted toes and a bottle of bishop’s blood and pepper.
What a crazy night! I swear we morphed so fast the nanoseconds had little on us.
They just laughed and counted the time it took for Agyness, scared, to eat her
blueberry crisp mush. Old or skinny, old or skinny.
The mountain men paraded and cancer patients had their wigs
when the crowd cleared and violence had occurred which left no more beards.
The world is crazy out there!

So if I could endure another force-fed moment please stop me
or else I will haunt you in your sleep and I really will.
You will dream about me slinking, lioness tail. No lie
I can enter the dreaming bloodstream or through various orifices
in particular the ear so I can blow on your drums.
At night we morph into able-bodied creatures
and somehow form a figure-eight model of the continuation of
earth’s sweet goodness on a concrete floor, sucked dry of humility.


Thoughts on a reunion

I couldn’t imagine you having a harp in your bedroom but if you say so, I guess.
Your mental grace lacked not made up by anything but my delusions concerning
the taste of your hair and drunken swagger since that is all that was left.
If only for one faithful moment your hands could have somehow cupped properly instead of rolling on my knuckles.
Wait, if only the past, (no) I can’t feel that webbing because it was so long ago.
The fine print missed your eyes always but made it on your arm instead;
you could only remember me if I was in front of you.
I imagine the waters flowing of you while sprawled in the bath
But who are you to jump head first into my molecular structures of h20?
While you’re just galavanting into my horizon, I try to dance but I’m just dripping.
I try to dry and I can’t because the sun is too golden and I’ve never been a fan of falsified regal demeanors
and jewelry, crystalline, sloshing sideways down your spine.
If you enter I can’t go back to that land with the waters and the porcelain stained with
all of that hair dye rust. I believe it may have corroded me but I’m still alive.


i buried the box earlier today
i cannot hunger you so hard, faintly undone,
if no massacre were to struggle down your loins
where will the modest end tonight?

dear we all wear pink in our solitary discovery.
there's incandescence in a shower stall,
color fractions slip between your toes

laying fingerless on queen anne's lace,
my lord! shouted the prairie child in white.
you're such a liar. you have blue eyes

you cannot catch the gulp, the lashing
the unwedded double scene marriage in my head;
immune to its song, much like myself.

oh, those blues. they only pass it away.
lock up the mattress, let it grow trees
blossom humility. blossom servility.

Audrey has been writing poetry since her childhood, growing up in the Midwest and trying to find new ways to escape on a regular basis. Now she attends school in Kansas City, Missouri. In her free time she draws primarily with pen and ink, spends time with her two siamese cats, dyes her hair and listens to jazz as constantly as sanity permits. She just read about a new, pink Katydid that has been sighted around the Midwest. She can't wait until the day she sees one of these creatures. She occasionally posts new drawings and writings on her website: audreykeiffer.com.