Such a Man – Poem by G.P.

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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,
something,
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
unlock

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

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Anita McQueen – Harlot

She plods pickles
until they lay straight

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

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
crying.

No One Can See – Poem by Anita McQueen

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Anita McQueen – No One Can See

Rain coming down
my chest
sparkling

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.