Bethany Price is a graduate of UW-Milwaukee. Her book Terror was published last year through Vegetarian Alcoholic Press. Her poems appear online in 2River, Shepherd Express, and BlazeVox. She is a fan of fiction, poetry, television, tumblr, podcasts and mixing patterns. You can reach her at blastedsheath.tumblr.com.
Zombie fucker of the mind. You don’t want my body you want
the space in between my brain and my fear, too intimate now.
Like now I have a gun always. Like now it’s the possibilities
that paralyze me. Now, people tell me to feel what I need to feel.
You think a new environment makes you safe?
I am a mountain of ice with no sun to allow entry.
Even though I am a sun. I am sun filled. I try to
have days where grace is a habit.
But I don’t know what holds me up anymore.
It all offends me. I’d rather unmake myself alone,
the tips of my limbs, my limp tongue reverberating.
Hold your gun strummed up never out but up.
And your pussy it is fine I suppose even though it can’t
melt down cleanly, naked. When you were a girl.
When you were several girls. Felt like a bunch of small
“O”s in a spirit with new patterns to make. The mind
here is between a gun and always. The choice
is to be a brain worried about itself or to be a brain
worried only about crying along with the daytime.
Probably, whatever I try isn’t naked enough.
This story is a point of communion. I watered it
down with a small amount of ice, because the voices
who made it were trying to offend me.
Here, it feels like a couple of lifetimes, until you get shot
with my goddess, my glass, my gun, my gold, my fun
days with a brain. O mountain, cry along with me,
ask me truly if I ever want to leave the house,
or see bodies filling the air. I can find the logic if I
unbind with it. This body is always until it’s not.
Until it’s a story of cell death in a cleavage cage.
The benign primrose pressed her
nesting paws, the ground
waited and abated. The trees were
full-laughed and guffawing
at the mischievous onlookers
skirting her adjectives with their toes.
A word to describe her tricks: belated.
You were busy, so she
started without you. On the forest
walls were murals of past
philosophies, you know; picnic
leaves depressed with debates.
She rises up to the celestial
stairs buxomly, since she is
the type to swing every which
way, from withered skeletons
and from abandoned cars overgrown
by nature’s amusement.
There is no hole in a fox
who knows her defenses. She,
confused at first, met the god-monkey
with a frightening glare. The next
evening the aging light met them
in union, creeping together and
seeking through the same yes.
The same eyes meet you now, you,
afraid of an answer which was provided
without you: the verse has written
you out, every other line
a sentiment of dead love.
You regret this miracle you missed
of your sound cage.
A sensual baker is teething cake so we will want all of it. Is a promise hurtful to you and if so how wide do we make our legs. Scoping out cars as they sigh to your rightful curb, and on your left, lovers hatch espresso dreams. Haggles of old tan men in smart denim shorts creep through the humidity with horns and railways stapled to their feet. At a certain age I swear they just roll by, as I do, unblinking at the gratefully awful universe, with its love of chaos and down trodden monsters. I wish I would see a monster. I expect one every time I turn around. I’m sick of seeing human. I offer my desire to the secret black holes where what I want becomes what the universe is for me. I only exist phonetically, when the last person says my name I’ll die less painfully, it’ll be delete keys claiming me liar. Can I screen you for diseases before kissing the hems, this is what she asked her gods, each one of them: for she doubted how she birthed the walking statues and what poison that need came with.
We are barefoot in heat.
We eat bear feet to meet a mate.
I bore you and I’m aware but might I footnote you in a life anyway?
My bite sized breasts sitting nippled slightly in a red tousled shirt. I gave your doubt five minutes in a microwave and you erupted melted and unsystematic, it took me years to shape you how I wanted, oh smog of the night, oh loveless thing curdling in my feet bottoms, oh car of fallopian nightmares. Fearful cries of space-night, bless my logic, torture this small mind. I ignored all to go for it on my own into a wooded mess.
I tried on an abduction case where memory was a fallacious gnome
I suck on you, feeding your pet first.
I look grave and my mouth is slit like the dirt you tear at to get to the dead in me.
Harebrained, I watch everlasting television.