Load up your Stratocaster & your incandescent porthole
an eyeball coped through gold band,
Mr. Radiotower, Mr. Longshot, Mr. Bloodtest, Mr.
Relax, don’t do it–
don’t do it. the nuns have calculated your time of arrival
in anticipation of the time between landing gear
and your buttonfronts opened like a suitcase
only to free prophecies from watchbands:
husband, this drug is too slow
father, this drug is too slow
the riverbank of the Mississippi
travels south from cove to cove
the copious hollowings
cut through marshbank
can you stand sir yes sir
can the mermaids sing each to each
can you not inhale
can you watch a peach devoured
and bite down on a single fig
this pastoral speeddating clogging
artery and the bottom nine
oh for a taxi to break down
oh for you to cry like a girl at the cherry blossoms
to have entry beyond the elastic band
at the top of thigh high pantyhose
what do they call that thing, the fulcrum that holds the tights over the leg?
already in your journal those tights are yanked off like skin
on an avocado all the alligator bits
& to be in this moment
like puppy chow sent into a kind of orbit
and the thwack of her body on her body
target practice for the damned
you’re bloodless you’re an arpeggio
you’re reaching into your pants
like a very obvious magician pimping
eyeballs, the heart is one of those flowers
that opens once twice sometimes no happy,
you say, only love.
no happy. queer as a fortune cookie in bad translation.
your brother in Tokyo dressed as a girl last year
you’re sworn to secrecy, sworn to records, sworn to
nostalgia, sworn an oath
to what’s his name the one
with the hair the one who they called the lizard king
and didn’t die in his sleep
no by now the girl cavorters have dropped their shoes,
have gone inside, a melting like drugs
you’ve packed your telescope
army of plastic soliders
armed with plastic radios,
armed with arms, hands,
hands, mr.
happy, mr. good day
sunshine, happiness
is a warm schlong
when you don’t
shoot to kill–
the lust the windowscreen
the soprano shrieks all over
you fallen like gingko leaves
to fan your face tugging jerking
quick strange at your command,
general air and space, check your
heart is lily white check the cabin
pressure check for liftoff
the starvation & so you visit vineyards
on business trips with imperatives
slung and slung suspenders to hold
your heart in to keep your body in check
I will just sit in this chair and watch
I might touch myself but
I really love my wife
Erin Lyndale Martin’s work has appeared widely in such journals as PANK, La Petite Zine, Typo, Cannibal, Tarpaulin Sky, and many more.