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.
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.