“Life // slip // stream” by Elisabeth Horan

Arsenic Hour

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It’s nothing / hangs / like toile / white gauze / surgery / comes and goes / lab coats I never wore / monkeys & rabbits / guilty / I am always / I hate the inaction / I hate the mascara / raccoons flood my airways / knowing what I don’t or won’t do / embarrassing / I want the chicken but waste her every time / her bones unlovable / her beak / as my tailbone / so broke so broke / the shells too thin / they crack they crack / when I brood / they smash a million pieces below my tired wide ass / unfeminine to heap one’s load upon a pile of baby trash / I pray to God… Please make it last / keep it in / give it life / he cares not / he kills things / easy as life floats in unwanted/ so it goes out out with the bathwater / sesame seed / so wanted / first term ova / non teen abortion / the rainbow baby / the dead squirrel / this mad woman / just has questions of life and the mercy of the Lord / might as well ask the tree trunk / what or why the hell / is all this praying for—

 

 

 

 

 

Elisabeth Horan is an imperfect creature advocating for animals, children and those suffering alone and in pain – especially those ostracized by disability and mental illness. Elisabeth is honored to serve as Poetry Editor at Anti-Heroin Chic Magazine, and is Co-Owner of Animal Heart Press. She recently earned her MFA from Lindenwood University and received a 2018 Best of the Net Nomination from Midnight Lane Boutique and a 2018 Pushcart Nomination from Cease Cows. She has books coming out in 2019 with Fly on the Wall Poetry Press, Twist in Time Press, Flypaper Magazine, Hedgehog Poetry Press, and Cephalo Press.

 

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“Portrait of Anatomy” by Elisabeth Horan

Arsenic Hour, Visitants
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Image: “View of Miranda, Italy” by Emma Sywyj

Mine’s more like an O’Keeffe/Twombly;

born of bougainvillea brush strokes; unraveling

petals bearing, groaning out the sixty-eight

genius children of Javier O. Huerta. He knew

the meticulous folds don’t come

Easily; the internal orchestration almost

impossible to disseminate. But, I declare –

it can be done. If you go back to the petals,

really think about the color, blue-white

delphinium, a wink of pink; saturation

begins inside naturally, just beyond the stamen

line – in the background there is the sea,

angry at the unfinished poetry, starts another

grocery list; she can’t remember

all her old lovers – unaware Cy

is watching, unwise to the trick

of the tide, molding her size,

dictating her movement, spills

her secrets on the sand. Georgia

is diving in again, deep deep

commitment, to an Iris, her lips

of lavender-mauve, ripe for artistic

improvement, gives herself over,

and over and over, a wave folding,

a flower unfolding, myself – miraculous

folds of female modern art:

hybrid growth of complexity.

 

 

 

 

Follow Elisabeth on Twitter: @ehoranpoet

Visit Emma Sywyj at her website: www.emmasywyj.com

“Not on my lips anymore” by Elisabeth Horan

Arsenic Hour
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Image by Nydia Lilian

Your sexual preference is the strand
of spider web across my eyes
this morning,

Annoyed, I swipe
it away; it is perfect and persistent;
it laughs at my effort, yet
doesn’t let go.

My wanting you is for what –
I don’t know – as if new clothes
would make me

Somehow happier – more complete –
as if a male outfit
could dress me less like a pauper,

More like the butch empress who shuns the
requisite lesbian clothes

Our time was not for naught but smacks
of chocolate mints after dinner,
you want one so badly
especially after ordering only a salad –

In the parking lot
a well meaning couple,
(whichever one you choose)
says,

There’s a little something on
your face,

And I know it so well, brown and green –
the warmth of it: smears just like our body parts.

I still pray for us, reunited, but your taste is
not on my lips,
not on my lips,
not on my lips –
anymore.

 

 

 

Follow Elisabeth Horan on Twitter @ehoranpoet

Yum Yum Time by Elisabeth Horan

Arsenic Hour
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Image by Becca Stadtlander

Hello shattered baby. Lie down – and come, I want to be free with you – I want to be something new for you – to be your new pet. I’m so fun: you drinking / me drinking fun. I want our party to be the kind they love – they covet our things, our makeup, our thighs, our non-existent pantilines. We are goddess lovers / we are body-snatchers. We are what love wishes it could be – calls us up and asks for advice on her asymmetrical nasal profile and pesky mustache whiskers. Bitch. Serves her right. Took yum yum from us all that 90s time. We are the light bright ponies lip sync karaoke twins – short skirts Timbalands hot as hell white light black jack tattoos Rosie Rivet – holsters for our whips on hips – Lesbians? Hell yeah. You butch, me femme, all tongue. Both of us, both of them. Canigetayesma’am? Shattered baby, Lisbeth lovely, tongue pierce kitten purr, purr lilla whisker pet – come, to momma, one more time and stay here: safety arms get paid in sex to protect you. Fun times love times come n get me some of this yum yum time.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

Arsenic Hour: my middle aged women troubles by Elisabeth Horan

Arsenic Hour
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gif by Nancy Liang

This is the debut of Elisabeth Horan’s column, Arsenic Hour. Here is its namesake poem.

 

 

Here comes a bad one. Pearled teeth, gnarled hands, knife fingers, bomb breasts, snake limbs, tortoise pelvis, wolf anus, pronghorn genitals. Here comes the malfeasance. Ivory ban, fingernail grind, tusked cheeks, flat bill palette, five toes times five legs, monstrously amphibious, heat seeking whore platypus. Squat and jealous. Here comes the lady in red. Competitive. Hormone pinch hitter, estrogen wane, progesterone filler, wants things of testosterone nearby her; a dildo toy killer. Hypothyroid gets her best, statin spies through this fat girl’s dress. Here comes young queen bee, she’s queen till tomorrow’s sorrows. Hippocampus dehydrated, frontal lobe sliced mango, cortex, correct me, umm, sliding unstable, emotions hostage, child for ransom. Speaking of gloves, here’s the kid, here’s the mother. More immature this ovary banter, this Questcomm demeanor; Elvira thong, Judge Judy pants, this earth-bitch wishes for a pod like Mrs. Jetson’s. Dishes, cuticle crack, thumb condom, mustache wax. Pajamas, pantiliner, low slung breasts, boring penis, always Mr. Right: flaccid. Middle age mayhem: anemic theater. Of war and love, no date is cheaper than this female, dullard woman; dial up trauma-hype and penitence; frugal.