Such a Man – Poem by G.P.


G.P. – Such a Man

I could be such a man—
so much more of a man,
such a better man
I’d walk a million smiles
from dusty town to dusty town
just to get a glimpse of that
one true body—yours?

Then, when I get there, I’m totally anything able to
do anything about it.

I’m crooked in so many non-luxurious ways.

I might as well just walk up
the stairs and go to bed alone,
not even fantasize about your
hips, lips and other places

I want to have and hold but not
commit to, per se.

Here is a pink heart,
a strange trip

To be the reluctant hunter
meanwhile you make a game of
being game,
you are a wrinkled bit of
faded beauty.

That event inside our tent was
like looking into a mirror
and still wanting to fuck what you saw:
hit and run, like you said,
but you must’ve wanted something
some intruder, conqueror, magician to

your box’s box
with the lock on the inside.

O Betts, how can I even get near your cloche?

Here is all I have to give:
Time was

Time was beauty healed.

Youth soothed.

All I needed for sanctuary was
a thought of my flowing hair,
never an idea of the years that would
turn me frightened, unable, frozen.

I would never recover from the gas fire of tears,
real wrongs and all the lost dreams,
the mind-numbing daze of days.

How many breaths, dear Betts, is enough?

Harlot – Poem by Anita McQueen


Anita McQueen – Harlot

She plods pickles
until they lay straight

they can’t help themselves
as she extends them a-

tasting a twinge
her future rot

apartment of mirrors
suffocating walls

a sun roof
taped over in black

her clothes
just a fluttering cape

she hoovers over their beds
as they squirt
up with pride

their milk
drying in the morning
scabs over her scars

she told me this
as I walked her home

No One Can See – Poem by Anita McQueen


Anita McQueen – No One Can See

Rain coming down
my chest

open blouse
closed heart
nipples hard

walking alone
empty street
backside of town

feel like screaming
but I won’t
too many freaks hiding

but maybe I’m one
not willing to
admit the obvious

I want to strip
off my wet clothes
except my boots

but I won’t
because I’d have to stomp
someone limp

there once was a man
I trusted until
I realized I cheat

glad it’s raining
so no one can see
my tears with the wicked raindrops.


Anita McQueen runs the streets at night, feeling the wind against her face, and long shadows on her back. Her poetry has appeared in Deuce Coupe, Visceral Uterus, and others.