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Cover Art Courtesy of Rebecca Jane Jewelry
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Contents A Virgin Who Can’t Drive..................................................................................................................................... 1 Évian Is “Naïve” Spelled Backward .................................................................................................................. 2 There’s Nothing Kinky About Okay, Now is There? ....................................................................................3 Siouxsie and the Banshees ....................................................................................................................................... 4
Don’t You Know Tricks are for Kids? ..............................................................................................................5 The Premiere Tramp of the New York Area ................................................................................................... 6 “Heinous Bitch” is the Term Used Most Often ............................................................................................... 7 A C Minus GPA With a Wonderbra ................................................................................................................8 Cause Lots of Schools Aren't on Hellmouths ....................................................................................................... 9
Band-Aids ................................................................................................................................................................. 10 Don’t Worry About the Snakes in Your Garden When You’ve Got Spiders in Your Bed ................11 Mr. Moviefone Does All Our Subliminal Tracks .................................................................................................. 12 Wench! Trollop! You Buck-Toothed, Mop-riding, Firefly From Hell!.............................................................. 13 American Teen Princesses Do Not Cross Their Legs Like Streetwalkers .......................................................14
Rex Manning Day .................................................................................................................................................. 15
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A Virgin Who Can’t Drive (Ars Poetica) I was 16, 21. I was baby bulimia. I was Lisa Frank stickers on D minor, hella high Ode to Joy. I was vomiting up nail decals and tiny Jennifer Love Hewitts. I was leaving for college when they dipped out to slay in a department store dressing room at Northwood's Mall. I was fat thighs scooped into a sugar cone, diptop. I was a burnt-out freak-out outside the movie theatre. I was a sloppy hand job. Flawless and alcohol poisoned on a hot pink Limited Too flower rug, I was totally to die.
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Évian Is “Naïve” Spelled Backward The marquee reads, “pie, pie, pie my darling.” All ding and kitsch, you’d expect a good pizza pun. Flour and flowers line the hem of my grandma dress. Dust skids the tips of my hiking boots. I’m a daisy chain in a dive. When Ashley asks when I’m gonna get a job, I’m a little boy called Warren Beatty. Are her hands on her hips as she stops mid-spiral on the metal staircase? No, I’m not working at The Gap. Did she step outside to scream in ShotGunaBeer Alley? I’m just-an-of-age-baby, drinking Budweiser on tap. Bad wine in to-go cups. My sister thinks I’m “too cool” to work. Lyndon B Josh nearly called me cool once. He’s the only one to ever make me pay for root beer, but he did dig my mixtape. The six overweight drunkards who came in after closing time told him he has an attitude problem. Well, geezers, he’s been hearing that all his life. His roommate says cats are his favorite, besides velociraptors. The only way you can really know that someone is truly listening is if they repeat what you just said verbatim.
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There’s Nothing Kinky About Okay, Now Is There? So how do I get some of that lemonade with vodka, the art class blond asks. This isn’t a bar. Just go up and snag one. Really?! she squeals and I wonder if her dude friends are trying to get with her or if they just want to talk about Vonnegut. One of them has a Morrissey haircut. The other a Popsicle striped shirt. Girl 1: I wasn’t into it. I went postal. I mean, I cried in the middle. Girl 2: Seriously? Girl 1: It’s whatever. Better than sexually transmitted daddy issues… Allen knows Ishmael’s real name. Let’s get matching denim jackets. Does the DJ even want us to dance? I’m wearing my sheer black halter with the tiny glitter studs. This chick I just met wants to make-out. No it’s just a joke. We’re both joking. Do you wanna? We both like being treated like shit. I mean, I could be dom, but I’m not a leg licker. I give up and sit in the grass. Everyone is drunk and joins me. I don’t want coffee. I wanna make-out. Just to make-out. Are you on the rag? No. I am just slutty and sad.
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Siouxsie and the Banshees Your vore was my lye stung eyes and lobotomized brain. Veronica Frances dug up my sugar skull. Dentata in the remains. She was your prayer once. my love burning like a hex. On May 21, the night before your birthday, they predicted the rapture. Chemical Peel was set to reel in the reckoning. Then an ill formed Dionysus cracked his head open, but nobody got raptured. I was a hitchhiker without wrists. You said you’d call the cops. Veronica plucked out my pluck, brought out my bravado. You’d make me plea myself into some fetish. I’d cry. You’d cum. But you said you’d call the cops. Your girlfriend corrected your posture. Your mother was a temple, your father, a threat. You attempted to stick your moaning dick in normalcy. Nothing says forgiveness like a bowl of shake. I christened Michael the Archangel your patron saint.
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Don’t You Know Tricks are for Kids? Between skate witches and ramp tramps, you’ve got us in Seattle flannel. Amanda says all the DTB boys are bad news. Down to bang? Nah, down to burn. More like TBDTeam Brain Dead. Those whiskey dicks don’t deserve Amanda’s dimples. She’s a petite Betty in a tied crop top and mom denim cut-offs. Morgan’s a tag-line. Pro skater. Pro smoker. The older Allen brother rags on me for always bumming. As if I want his L&Ms. I’ve got my own pack in my blow up back pack. A purchase to smoke up my hair, remind you of what you’ve traded in for chewing gum. When I get to class, you’ll want me like a nic-fit. The etymology of the word “sick.”
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The Premiere Tramp of the New York Area Grunge diddled the alien she. Sneaking off to a parking lot, a rooftop. Hell knows he’ll always be seventeen. She was a date raped prom queen kind of prize, damaged enough to be cool. I’d never ridden the subway before or had a panic attack via love. So, I socked his manhood like a locker room before late onset puberty. Sex-kitten scratch fever. Is it childish to use “best friend” as a euphemism?
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“Heinous Bitch” is the Term Used Most Often Claire Parks is a bunny of a babe. Never caught dead in a t-shirt. She blushes the same shade as her lip-gloss. Her boyfriend makes crowds believe punk rock isn’t dead. “Please don’t,” Claire begs. Before he only dated inked brunettes. But I’ve got a crush on the band like I’ve got a crush on the bunny. Not platonic, exactly. A crush like a blank candy heart. Like I just want to dance. Boring Portals is playing the Bronze. I exchange my brick lipstick for Jenna’s wine. We’ve got almost the same coloring, except my black washed out and I shed Ivory O1. The shade’s called Vamp. Skate or dye your hair. Michael digs the bassist. He’s a scholarly Mook. He says I’m nice tits, an E.D., and a leopard fur coat. It’s okay, it’s not a real one. I’ll never be a Midriff, Michael says. Michael says with a black eye.
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A C Minus GPA With a Wonderbra My mood ring is magenta, but my mood reads aquamarine. Lip Smackers in Dr. Pepper, but I taste like Diet Coke. I eat Lunchables tacos and roll my R's. I’d like to go to Seattle. Maybe they’ll put me on The Real World.
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Cause Lots of Schools Aren't on Hellmouths When sci-fi crawled out of the basement it edged sexy like a dank club. Dank like a cellar. Dank like a hit. Greasy as in delinquent, not greased squeaky puberty. The supernatural highlighted and hormonal, frontline freak with a head cheerleader’s reputation. Rayanne told me I look a little like the spin-off’s supporting damsel. Bookish boy’s name on a teenage wet dream’s face. I was so fucking flattered that I almost forgot I’d been called the same thing in math class, minus the reference. They faked a boy in order to hate me within earshot. They spoke in sneers and formulas. But maybe it’s okay, since sci-fi can be sexy. Being a rumor isn’t all that different from being primetime.
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Band-Aids (Imitation of "Flight Angels" by Elizabeth Willis) Cole heaves dry, sick off zinc. Laurel spring breaks to nurse him, but he edits out her dance. Confessing on a bean bag, she wants the boy with a bad liver. Teenaged is not the only term for angst. She’s like a glitter butterfly clip fallen on his floor. He’s got his mother’s blood, but she won’t spit him up. He promises her a premium kidnap. Based, he’s in love. It’s woozy as Xanex.
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Don’t Worry about the Snakes in Your Garden When You’ve Got Spiders in Your Bed Filched wine blood sister, we scarred our youth. We burned trampolines, marathons, and baked goods, preserving only our slumber parties and schoolgirl clothing as we made our way into abandoned lands. Littering the ROTC building. Loitering behind the bowling alley. Absent parents and trashed shacks. Fake gypsies, we covered our fingers with pinched marketplace rings. Tattletale took our treasures, but we were protected by the very youth we thought we didn’t want. . I’m sorry I (he) touched you (me) in an attic. It was the swigs and the cosmic covers. It was Antarctica’s radio and my territorial nature. This jealousy isn’t erotic, it’s terrified and double-sided. If you go missing, my insomnia will only get worse. I need homemade loose leaf tea and lullabies. This panic is manic. My worries are wired.
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Mr. Moviefone Does All Our Subliminal Tracks Band mates are lifers, drumming out loyalty like blood sisters. Muse and musician, the actress and bishop. When she walks off stage, it’s Jessica, slipping over the chorus like opening credits. Sure she’s last summer, but what’s more stunning than infidelity? Permanent as plastic death, she’s a neon fur. He’s given her the backhanded tribute of a liner note. She’s made platinum by a swing vote, the thing that’s not unanimous. Her chirp is all climax. He can spin a legend with her underground.
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Wench! Trollop! You Buck-Toothed, Mop-riding, Firefly From Hell! The Catholic school witches crash the public school prom, nocturnal cloaked bat wings in the sixties daydream. The back table’s a stain Soaking into the pastel pop boys and girls wrapped like hard candy. Sage has the face a good witch gone wicked, Bardot in Cleopatra’s kohl. With a telepathic sneer she dubs the court flamingos. McCeever cackles cute. Witch baby with a sci-fi auburn pixie and green eyes like conjuring stones. Alicia’s a Spanish bruja in her mother’s vintage Givenchy. Thin as a fainting spell and just as fair. A conquistador speared an empire and Alicia was born.
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American Teen Princesses Do Not Cross Their Legs Like Streetwalkers Puréed and poured into a child’s bladder, I am pink piss. I am always mentioned wearing a Disney Store crown and Minnie Mouse tutu. Five pounds, seven ounces dumped out of 125. T.V. dinners dissected with scalpels. He talks tabloid bodies. For her, it’s always Polaroids. I question the logistics of sawing off my hips. Perfection is prepubescent. Adult bulk oozes into a digital smear, course nap and spoiled pork, ruddy and raw. I am salted in order to deter such a condition. I am stuffed into shakers and pinched with the granules. It is poured down my throat like the Epson I gagged so that my stomach could plop out for easy hip removal. I am the vile taste of chemical tears and whatever is being ousted. I hand myself over as toddler teeth, enamel rotted with effort. My name is the lineage of a mad woman. I must not become any woman. Instead I am asked to define myself into aviary bones.
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Rex Manning Day We’re at a kegger and the world is ending. No, like seriously, the world is really ending. Everyone is talking shit. “Fuck Damien,” says the pixie-mohawk. “And that Malibu bimbo.” Earth’s cunt is caving in. And that Malibu Bimbo. Damien’s after sex, eat-shit grin is plastered on a tumbling billboard. The fall sounds like a Sophomore’s orgasm. Living room full of exes and ex-lovers, and everyone is fleeing over each other, fleeing alone. I’m just not ready to leave the party. Pressed against the Habitat sofa, my white patent-leather kitten heels squeak, “It’s not labor day yet.” It’s my first time in a frat house. I just knew something like this would happen. My party dress was made for the dark. Almost everyone has left by now. A wastoid trips over a cat while trying to find his board. “The rapture’s a blacklight,” he tells me. The scum is rising up. Merit UltraLight stains on my fingers, sluts splattered like acid wash all over my face. My Sear’s department undies shine in the same pitch as Sisqo’s key change. On location, you can hear them with the cat’s howl. I might have slept with Damien once. Between blood there’s always vodka. In my first nine lives, the alcohol was phallic. There must be something more than Aborts. I feel too young for cocktails. I’ve never thought that before, that I’m too young. The world is so over. My head is sound proof. I can’t hear a thing. Whatever happened to the rest of the gen x –ers, I get the greater chaos. You come for me by instinct and lead me to the after-party. I am safe, not saved. You’re headlining. Heaven is cool. It isn’t all glory. The decade’s dead. I’ve missed you.
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In her essay, “Dynamic Design: The Structure of Books of Poems,” Natasha Saje writes, “No self is primary, untouched by culture–and poets acknowledge this to varying degrees” (2). This is a central concept of my collection since it is a direct product of the culture I grew up in. Between the dethroning of the Brat Pack and the birth of the “Tween,” there was the rise of the 90’s teen movie. Although I couldn’t relate to these films at the time, considering I was still in elementary school, they framed my idea of what high school and college would be like. In this collection, I returned to that original notion and used it to reframe my own experiences. As follows, the perspective is both that of a child watching young adults on screen and a twenty-something portraying the child’s version of adulthood. This corresponds well with the aesthetic of teen films from the mid 1990’s to early 2000’s. From butterfly chokers to glittery mini-dresses, the trends captured on screen are exceptionally girly. Thus, I wanted the collection to be equally pastel and plastic, pretty and synthetic. The vernacular of these films also had an adolescent quality about it. Think of the valley girl language of Clueless, phrases such as, “As if!” composed of monosyllabic words and delivered with a babyish wine. At the same time, even after the death of Kurt Cobain, there was a lingering element of grunge. There were skater boys and record shop employees. Beyond that, witches were growing ever more popular (The Craft, Hocus Pocus, Sabrina, etc.) and Gregg Araki was bringing the apocalypse to the valley. I wanted the collection to end in that same place, but I didn’t want it to be a clean and steady progression from the ordinary to the bizarre. I wanted elements of the grotesque to morph the otherwise everyday events of the early poems and for normal settings to ground the sci-fi happenings towards the end. Also, I wanted to hint at the later events before
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they actually happened, for example the false rapture coming much earlier than the party where the world is “really ending.” Another thing I wanted to avoid was a coming-of-age narrative. I wanted the speaker to consistently linger on the precipice between adolescence and adulthood. She is the teenager buying alcohol with her older sister’s fake ID, the anorexic fighting for control by transforming her shape into that of a little girl’s. To that affect, I am greatly influenced by the work of Kate Durbin. Everything from her essay, “A Teenage Girl Speaks As A Melodramatic, Hysterical Demon” to her found poetry formed from the Tumblrs of teenagers, her pieces portray the common teen girl, a descendent of the “Midriff” of the 90’s, a girl who is simultaneously sexualized and innocent, aware and naïve. In the essay, “The Teen Girl Tumblr Aesthetic,” she and Alica Eler claim, “[bubblegum pop culture hijacks] the notion of adolescence, attempting to reinstall it into adults who have already experienced it — the heightened emotions, the epic breakups, the popularity contests, the selfactualizing, the loss of virginity, the sugar-sweet feeling of falling in love again for the first time.” My poems attempt to that as well. These poems are meant to be both glitzy and dark, ditzy and sardonic. One of the best cinematic embodiments of these contrasted themes is Jawbreaker. The title of the collection comes from a line spoken by Rose McGowan’s character, Courtney, as she shrugs off the consequences of “accidently” murdering the darling of her circle of popular friends. It’s the death of innocence without any actualization. It’s originally spoken from the glossy red lips of “Satan in heels”, recorded by mistake, and played repeatedly over the loudspeaker at prom. It’s both sinister and sassy in a way that can only be spoken by a teenage girl.
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