Mend This Brief Salvo/ shell-shopping on graveyard beach/ The Dichotomy of Hair Color/ I glitched like a snapped wand as Hurricane Sandy peeled the Big Apple

Mend This Brief Salvo

1.

she yawns like a southern city, another year hatches a more pungent hunger

it is that subtle apathy of a loon…it is that lust for the blueprint…it is that itch…

infidelity butchered her disingenuous phone-call, her words dribbled like un inflated balls

it is that recognition of contrivance…it is that lust for the blueprint…it is that sallow skill

steady streams now sully a slighted wound, swallows mimic citrus dreams up and down a railing sky. she was crimped by the hellish hymns of a loved but demonic canary

call her “Honesty’s Vagina”

call her whatever is tepid and severed

call her baby cupid’s tirade

2.

a stickler for the unscathed recesses of a jutted world she unbraids it all to find a wry desert. God’s underbelly is the thin rhapsody of pot and it clogs the authentic like oatmeal

so a detractor commenced a bewailed pilgrimage, Jerusalem was creamed in the raunchy smell of corrupted roots. she turned blonde upon encountering the vagaries of the past

see, infidelity once gibed at her diffident burlesque and it was happening again but now she was citrus-eyed and no longer fallow. it meant more than the snubs of slippery suitors

steady streams sullied a slighted wound, swallows mimicked citrus dreams up and down a railing sky. she was crimped by the hellish hymns of a loved but demonic canary

call her “Sagacity’s Bastard”

call her whatever is undercooked but still searing

call her a blunted oracle

3.

a militant vignette prostitutes itself outside her city-window it moons her against torrid stars that remind her of a flaming faith. she highlights discipline with martial ink, turns crimson with a flashing, scarlet hope that thrusts itself at her titian desires while she, hermit and ruddy, sojourns a vanilla land of performing pedestrians, pallid with insincerity. the printer’s gasp told her of a smothered chance, a sheet popped like tulips could but she was too damp for this brazen headed honesty but talent stalled while watching her, it lingered like Pantene-smell, received her with bloodshot force and burgundy logic

4.

a fatigued love now lies stagnant in prayer, waiting for Medusa’s gaze to ignite the canary’s eclipse. its toothless refuse dapples some hope onto her, cylindrical and ablaze

shell-shopping on graveyard beach

I.

august is a whore who doesn’t take her time-

I swallow up the sea’s breath, blithe like talcum powder.

the oyster is the bedrock of my many cakewalks.

I gambol up along these beaches trying to look Mother Nature in the eye,

she is curved over; the lining of her gaping ass is the horizon

I think: homespun and impeccable

I think: what would Wonder Bread say

the world is my oversized oyster and I nurse it on god’s pale underbelly

oh, dogged ocean!

craft more and more shells for me to steal from you

the large flat ones are as honest as wide, lulling plateaus.

II.

I gather courage like the moon gathers all light.

spit up all my panache onto my hands and wash them into a tussled ocean

I’m bone, gaunt and cartoon-like. I’m fiber, maneuvering quickly through bodies

I said, clucking in disillusion:

pluck the feather’s out from under my armpits: tickle

the flowers until they shed their petals:

the clusters of people inside of me are always running away

III.

the pensive ones twiddle down to meadow beach and prod up inside tightly screwed shells. I thrust my hips up to a laundering sky and turn rosy with prowess so I quell by dripping desires by re collecting myself. I make hundreds of necklaces and hold their corpses, spellbound and hairy with hope

III.

my heart taps its nimble ballet-shoe on the corner of my buzzing alacrity

lunge, my heart says. lunge, lunge. Arms aghast, I try to be Christ, gripping at myself in prayer

V.

The sky has it’s period, dripping, dripping, dripping, and the shells look like they’re bleeding so I bite into the sun, a never-ripe orange, and feel the burn trickle down turn into a turtle the ocean stings and it’s broken bastards cradle that turtle and they all teach me how, oh how, in this world, horny for all the wrong things, how, oh how, to find that happy hunger

The Dichotomy of Hair Color

I.

A blonde latency bemoans this brown scrambling. Mason Pearson was a proud microphone when my sulking locks pleaded for a paled-tomorrow.

Blonde words are jutted with ocean-quills

The blonde’s tawdry, yellowed pride shook with tradition

and berated the unscathed recesses of me, grass-bodied and beastly

A blonde latency plucked itself clean the night of that harrowing rejection

A blonde latency then cleaved its legs and has been immobile

thereafter

II.

Blonde words stick like pregnancy on an amorphous self

The blonde’s jittery lust, full of biblical pardons and an oriental cringe, fixed itself on hook-nosed prey. Mediocrity’s taste was an ointment for a bellied pride…

It was phosphorescence good… A crown of tepid water for a fleeting, platinum queen…

I glitched like a snapped wand as Hurricane Sandy peeled the Big Apple

1.

Yester morrow is drained like a blue-collar pool in December.

He was a crescent, sharp like an angry Moon, but now I try to forget

Dangling like white factory lights, pride is dimly effulgent and obese with pseudo-apathy…

He was un-popped bubble wrap he was cesspool of maybe he was the shock of the first hiccup. his denial was finding red ants in a tooth brush,

but I am whining now, squealing with inadequacy, see- wars that aren’t wars and people who can’t really be people are fingering fat victory and I, heroine of nothing but the art of oscillation, sit complacent with a groggy smile imagining the biceps of old movie soldiers and the red-faucet deliberations of Civil War amputations and a bawling boy and my own racism and, most of all, all it meant to me when the world ate my apple-flesh last summer and it couldn’t bite though the core

2.

I’m back because I dreamt of an American flag hoisted like a noose above Staten Island

I’ve never been but I imagine it a messy stencil drawing gulping a sea with crusty lips

Hurricane Sandy thrusted its pelvis made of beefy rain and gravid winds…the city’s slender profile gaped from yellow windows at the portly outer boroughs…there is an earth that is always slipping and that same night I slipped alongside it: my integrity is hoarse but always here…

3.

Sandy was just a Jackson Pollack sketch from my window but I heard who Sandy chose;

Cowardice is when you watch it happen but New York likes mediocrity’s brassy warmth; there is a press conference happening right now but the guilt was gulped the moment it proved itself authentic

I looked for him the day after, glutting and swallowed like a globe of glue, looking for that quick sphere-of-a-man, grassy face and doe-eyed but I’ve said enough of this lethargic remembrance; he was a crescent, angry moon, angled like the pounce of a violin’s stutter, sharp like these computer letters, I never found him

My nostalgia needs to be shaven: it is clutter now and billowing odor, and most of all there is an earth that is always plummeting and this gaseous, illumined past was a kingdom of quivering possibility but it is irrelevant now so I trash my own truth to stay true…

CNN showed me a dead baby, wiped away by greedy waves. Sandy took it with its mustard arms and guzzling propellers. I will never forget how the baby laid limp like a young twig, limp like the broken springs on the scale of equality, limp like the way money hangs when it has satiated the wrong sort of hunger…

4.

I love like Sandy destroyed…my heart comes out in gushes of harrowing inflections, it ripples through smaller cities of the mind…molten and carnivorous, I loved him like Sandy loved undressing and making fierce and cruel love to this wilting New York, not ready for Poseidon’s surge and domination… oh, New York, idea of a city, reveal your rashes and recoil like the snake you are back to your mother, Nature…


Tatiana Dubin, Age 17, Grade 11, Hewitt School, Gold Key

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