new weird sentimentality or i meant it you sandals or i did i did but then i died quietly with other leather straps and i destroy to that because i don’t want to be the national spelling bee champion of poetry categories and what they mean but you might call me amelia earhart’s cunt in the comments anyway

By Ramona Beastly

sometimes i get the slippy edges of these poetry terms regarding new boy old man scents of mentalmilkity and leaking sincerely spin beard cleanings mixed up. i read them because i want to know them so i can rub them through me even though i can’t always completely draw their faces. not when they run out on cheap bridges so scuttle and certain that this is indeed the surface that looks most like a human nature preserve. lowghosts always come slicing through us anyway. they drip us on their bombberry pancakes.

i watch the bridges shutter old birthday cards onto the bright of boats. i touch the handrails stuffed with broken windows and lorinne neidecker’s old bathroom mats. leaf is noticed over and over on the back of each mat in the kind of ink designated for crosswords. now the word leaf looks like well water stains to me every time i see it roasting on the end of deciduous barking stuck near a dog. rust shots. rust shots. rust shots for everyone with a swallow.

when i don’t know because murk but i feel because murk, i talk the way i’ve heard a particular word clap lately or flash the nickel plated ear lobe covers i got at the bookstore with my purchase of berryman’s dream songs. i might ask what container you think the water they mist at the grocery store is grown safely inside of. they couldn’t touch the colors with real water, right? thats what happened? it feels like it would fall over before your mouth all the time. i mention that i wish you could chew with your chest open in a different language. or change the name of the city into a noisy saddle that makes all the swamp words hurt less. i’m full of weak spots that i push beer at and if you are, i would like it if you sored so. we can point at that with over ten thousand carefully coughed up threads and probably not see light. but maybe.

i named titles hurled together by poetry names here and you can hear them and that’s maybe wrong that i muttered but it doesn’t matter. because i vomit and piss on them as much as i love and sex them. my throat is caving in every few hours. how long has it been since yours killed itself during a poetry reading or while you were fucking digging for clams in your laundry basket. which was it? out of joy/sudden desert. circle one. my throat gets back up and spits sharps at the passing mailman on the regular. it’s not a joke to me that everything is a joke weeping radioactive and swollen chicken bones out its stomach in the middle of kickboxing class. i seep up that pain and strugglesauce like a brawny paper towel. the book drags itself by its little beads of ripping sounds and lets its bladder loose smelling grins on everyone’s quiet hum sounds.

my throat is a void quilt that i can’t help up with the striped knives escaping from my lard-ish hair. i drink soup while crying into frank stanford pdfs. the library in this part of minnesota has no straps for me under that name. sometimes i just crayon his name on my throat and ask you if you will read whatever it is that is there while we wait for the bus driver to keep us off for drinking the bottom on his route. on the long walk to the dive bar we yell at the roots that don’t know how to be fat but are wrapped around our glow anyway.

shrugs.

do you want to do that blood motherbrothermudderbrooder thing with me? i just want to hear something hit hard if not more than ever.





THE UNQUOTABLE RAMONA BEASTLY bowls a 180 of the dock and promises no dependable house shapes. she has no fixed gaze to speak of before shooting off a firearm.