SPOTLIGHT The Wound: poems and stories by Kristen Mitchell

The Wound: poems & stories: Mitchell, Kristen, Buddha, Alien: 9798532227262: Amazon.com: Books

Tits

Tissue. I had a mass there.
Into the ducts doctors placed
a camera, pulled them out said
I’d never milk a baby again.
Tits. Men like babies suck
them dry. Men are babies looking
for their mother, one way or another.
Unaccountable for their actions,
need a woman to wipe up their
shit. Flowers. Underneath the skin
the breast muscle resembles flowers.
Women supposed to be flowery.
Smell good. Be sweet. Stay pretty.

What about the corpse flower?
That’s me. Death. Look like it.
Smell like it. Curse like it. And
I don’t mind. Breasts. A bunch
of fat for nurturing. The porn industry
says the bigger the better, the firmer
he won’t cheat. How much did that
plastic surgery cost? Now everything
is sweet about you. Is filled up with
cancerous material but you look so
damn good. Boobs. Get a girl half
your age and you’ll never have to worry
about her boobs sagging with your ego
because soon you’ll be dead.


Really Artaud

The human mind is the scariest thing of all.
Intangible translations.
Uncompromising clicks of suppressed imagination.
From the times sitting in a room playing with plastic horses.
Or in a long narrow hallway. Apprehensive to movement.
The dark was just as dark there.
The unconscious beating of heartbreak.
Not being held enough by the ghosts.
Down in the bed snoring like a fat dog.
Housed in a brain. A friend. A best friend.
How scary you can intrude on me.
And slip into an entity of language eating at my gut.



Five to Ten Pounds of Bile

I know a girl with a noose tattooed around her neck.
There are days I look at her photo on IG and want to make a copy.
Let it penetrate my skin. Become a monument of destruction.
Resembling my life. The noose that wraps around my body.
A regifted present no one wants. I have blood stained in my thumb.
This is my relapse of days and daze. Triggers.
Lonesome impossible relationships. Bricks tied to their lungs.
Sinking. Drowning in a toxic river of sewage. Placebo.
Perfume of the worst kind. I plunge into asthma inhalers. Razors.
A destiny of Covid hospitals. Misunderstanding.
A constant apology for my sensitive existence.
Five to ten pounds of bile.




Smell of You

I wear your sweat jacket in the morning when I write.
Your smell’s woven in the fabric. It smells like your house.
You’re still there. I’m trapped against a separate continent.
Wishing for the evenings to imprison you in seclusion.

For stars to eat at your fingertips so you won’t forget how
I used to sing Joni Mitchell in bed. Hideous outbursts make sense
now. I was a child walking on earthquakes. Finding old kisses
beneath dirty feet. Grab me. Tickle me with my tongue. I am here.
You are there. Molecules hang in the air. An antidote, the smell
of your sweat jacket.



Eating My Depression

fucking it all up
stop talking
don’t gush
take a muscle relaxer
pretend ur in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory
ur jaw isn’t sore
lick the wallpaper
find a way out
expensive language is on the plate
eat it
look for a way to say, “I’m not sad,
I love life, the flowers are lovely”
just pretend
just imagine
grip the thought bubble like a fine piece of luggage
extinguish what sets you aflame
be light
be the fucking dali lama
or scream, “fuck the dali lama!”
eat eat eat
get fat on that junk food depression
this is not an instruction manual


NYC Scum

Where was it? Fuck if I know. George Harrison standing in front of Matchless Gifts New York of London? Whatever. Chant your way into life Hare Krishna but your death is in Washington State Park like that movie Kids where he fucks that kid up with the skateboard. Not sure where you’re going but I’m gonna take a taxi to the Bowery to score some “H” then to the Village. Hope to hear some John Coltrane on the juke in some dive ass bar where I can shoot up grab my balls & nod off. Is this New York ya fucking hippie? Kim Kardashian in Paris got her jewelry stolen. Wish it was around the corner. I would have done it. I would have tapped that big ass, but now Times Square might just save my life tough sugar cubes this loud city is like a worm through an apple.



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