historical bed sores
some women cup their breasts and women without breasts chirp at the thought
women hold their babies up to the light and the women without babies weep at the thought
women with tears in their eyes with gas in their mouth can pose with tigers in the bath
tigerless women check the number of breasts their childless heads their breastless chests
their sore bone rectangular, triangular
armless kids climbed inside a clock
the women with no breasts with red gruesome hair are kin
prepare bowls of hot gum
in our bellies
we have clowns and bugs
we have mock breasts and bellies like bowls of hot gum
frig the dried blue men
a soup for my sister a new earhole where her wound is a light
the women without babies sing into cat bellies
we hunt for sliced up income
for mamma’s dark red underwear
strong girls breathing in rivers
drinking out of each other speaking out of each other’s backs
sing for our empty friend
some river bellies some ocean some singular bump
health custard
bomb shoes
who killed our cave? who let out our weal?
a cave for my baby
a rubber ball full of honey
without babies we chirp into caves into everybody’s cave
drinking a pool of tomato pips and the last strings of egg
delicious forever
find a cave for my injured friend
Spirited Pictures
An aerial photograph of antelope
black sesame seeds on a plate
are not insects
I am not a sporty god or ghost
my insect head sweats it is going to picture
keeld huts
dark burns on the sea
The image isn’t magic
the dints on Her fruit face
Her finger-pocked dream is not an aerial photograph
of rats in flooded tanks
or black seeds surrounding a pie
There is no God’s eye view of this bed
of mating ladybirds in lava
A plate is murky I say
to the pie
I am not your god
but I have licked you full of paradoxes
Tinnitus and the neighbour’s oi!
are not song
Pierced drum skin
your fingers finger in
Aerial antelope and sesame seeds are not insects
that bite and drill
that little mad and stamp
They are not insects that bite and drill
like the body at the hook of a mouth is
spotted with weird phonemes
But this is not its autopsy
This is not the holographic autopsy
of an ancient mummified corpse
The Mystic Derives Pleasure from Her Vision of the Crucified Christ (Masturbating with Sea Shells)
an empty shell, a non-state object
can be reclaimed for its summed crinkles
and a money-smooth cuttlebone.
She tested
value in polymer rubble we tested
special thread. I said soak, said I was a hairy pipe.
Upon the collection like hybrid wealth
we sit one each groaning
laced different to love.
Lipping up to double our
communal acts of dislodged naughts
repeat kink
into a supernatural and ekstatic
houring of shapes.
Read it in the long oil spilt study of miracles—
Autoeroticism is synced
to nonproduction to music that she calls
her little “chickens.”
I found a death perched at the ridge
from lucy to whiskey burn.
Sat in a row holding our knees jeering
at the wobbling sunset, drawn
like a comedy on Roman mosaic.
We can use jelly from the ray’s nest
we can use jelly like utility
we can use
Wine Best
Wine
Cheapest
wine Best
Poems selected by Sophie Robinson, our virtual poet in residence for the October / November Issue of The Believer.
