Roger Reuver Auto-Harlow/Witch Spells Roasting I’m tired of all these people pink bullshit fetal worship candles behind doors to waste away the day or a squeaky sex toy and it’s 5 o’ clock anywhere sore wristlets and glass haunts searching for the perfect shuttering opening the darkness. It’s our little secret. I’ve gotten this far without killing myself and the planchette says she's better but why can’t these photos be clearer? and I was more awake then barefoot like Kim Novak and now it won’t stop raining and in the manger glow before the Veterans’ Retreat blonde curls on the outside sick bitch on the inside barefoot like Kim Novak in Bell Book and Candle. I am no rosy angel rather I’m the messenger of my own sex tape and I cry in the diner when a couple hundred geese die on contaminated water and we could so be friends and read tarot together but it would never last because I cannot French braid and truly I am jealous of every other woman on your open fire. Harlean Was a Carpenter I go to the party my pussy your custody a slippery balloon pink satin skin. I go to the party overlooking the Ouija jerk you off at the hotspot overlooking the river. I sew my mouth shut (you are my cross) like a little girl sex doll in my purple garters contractual jewelry. I light one wick a violent resurrection a glittery pinafore spread raw on bearskin chestnuts and boyshorts down on my luck but I’m happier here. I shimmy in sequined red light a knife in my ribs and turn the sun up. I hate you tight but it’s not the end too early for candles and chest pains headfather blockage a clove cigarette too late to be blonde with apology. Do you know the pearl discharge haunting pink policy? the underbreast sweat that’s too sweet? I’m addicted to night. I haven’t the patience for other ways in. Tears die on my face and the motor will race until it destroys us she will punish the idle and rise with the kings into epiphany. I’ll lean over my cards with booze, a lynx robe in my hotel room. I won’t change the lines to want you at the end. Note: Harlean Carpenter was the birth name of Jean Harlow Distance Is Not the realm of fox glitter roots or a weeping sorority. My job is to be bad not compassionate running your hands through my hair with the promise of money one vote on the long-lashed ostrich the irony of asking remember when? People shouldn’t badmouth what I can’t understand low, fully-shaved and on fire weather, a comfort an All Saints’ Day warm enough for our sluttiest costumes aches, pettiness. In her wheelchair she becomes a lover of wine and spray-on blue hair and I long for a phonebooth, a heart the small mind of a cat a masked walk to star in. The ice monster played in 100 movies. All the footage was lost. Bio: Jessie Janeshek's second full-length book of poems, The Shaky Phase, is forthcoming from Stalking Horse Press. Her chapbooks are Spanish Donkey/Pear of Anguish (Grey Book Press), Rah-Rah Nostalgia (dancing girl press), Hardscape (Reality Beach, forthcoming), and Supernoir (Grey Book Press, forthcoming.) Invisible Mink (Iris Press) is her first full-length collection. She holds a Ph.D. from the University of Tennessee-Knoxville and an M.F.A. from Emerson College. You can read more at jessiejaneshek.net.
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