they found a girl in the marshes

some murder in may my

sense of time was taken i guess yours was too

supposed to pick me up now where the hell are you?

he walked them forensics and all

back to the scene in the fall

the soul had softly regenerated 

a tangle of orchids tall


dressed ina stare

this room. the one window never
saw a sun set never saw a sun

tired yellow light. emotion-driven
words. dawn not yet broken
and who would know

lonely nights in the city
she lay with someone. any shadow
wrapped in sheets

she was meant to be
surrounded by prayers
careful movements
giving hands

who would

not this user not this
lover. ceiling dressed ina stare
end of a cigarette
wet. blackened
the other

against his chest
she listened
every man’s heart beat different
and none for her

remix 1998

Tampa, Florida. 1997

narrow dirt roads for legs
two moons for eyes she
was once that kid on a
milk carton

did not want to be found

twelve years later watching x
files smoking weed helps

the pain she
cares for her grandfather
and her son

they’re both handfuls

grandfather drinks and smokes
like he’s half his age
boy cries and throws tantrums like
he’s half his and he’s

she loves them without

i want to be around people
who give me energy
she shouts (competing with the
swamp cooler) not
take it

thick gravel roads for legs
half moons for eyes she
hasn’t changed

sweet fucking disaster (a club scene)

The MC gave the nod, the DJ let up on the brakes. The models coupled off in cliques, two by two, traveling in an arc around the club. Thievery Corporation stole the show. Stilletos shot into the air, all the pole strippers were there.  Clocked in and synchronized. Carrying our eyes. Up in the VIP room, a Lindsay Lohan lookalike and some worthless piece of shit were playing truth or dare. He dared her to go down on him. She went all up in his face, with a backhand and then some! The night had hardly begun.

The socially-challenged took their little pills, and waited for the shit to kick in. Hustlers played nine ball, washing the scene down with tonic, and gin. Versace’s ghost was in the corner scanning fashion mags. Pink was sadly watching the dancefloor and the lights. She excused herself the many times she was asked to dance: no thanks, i’m on the rag. No worries, all was good. The bartenders were on their toes, and that’s just the way things stood.

Bottom line was this club was poppin’. All five stories wrapped around a stage. The BDSM crowd surfed right into their cage.  Everyone  anticipated the night’s billing, Sweet Fucking Disaster. The band was still back stage, feeling cherry.  All the underage girls in their arms, in lieu of instruments. No one asked for ID. Pretty scary. The socially-challenged, started feeling the chills. Thanking false gods for their pills. Dispersing out easily, now that they were lubricated. Like the thighs around the poles. Everyone wanted something, they would most likely get. Touching. Anticipating that Sweet Fucking Disaster that hadn’t quite fallen off — not just yet.

by Katya Mills

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