P o e t r y M i x t a p e//

M e g h a n M i l s t e dJu l i an Smugg le s

wishing there were more songs written from the perspective of cats is not the same as licking your wounded , s c ra t ched ,

i n v i s i b l e p a w s

MM

i can imagine you,like you said,wide eyed and nakedsprawled on your plaid comforterstaring out of your black windowsitting in your hard backed desk chairtouching your chesttouching your lipstouching the keys on your typewritertaking a photo of your dead reflectionwith your stupid phone.i imagine you close your eyesthinking of methinking of your dad’s beerthat you stuffed in your backpack,an action that i told you reminded meof a midwest songthat i myself wanted to live.i wanted to liveyoui combine two impossible images of youto fit the dream i had last night.

you mean nothingmore to methan the person i wantto think the world of meto swallow me whole.so i will become everything to youthen i will infect you from the insideinfest you, swarm and eat away.i will become the one you worship so much that you hate meuntil the very deadness in your stomachallows me to peel the skin and ribs apartand walk away.

s t ea l i ng you r dad ’s bee r

JS

for me, but morefor yourselfhiding themunder the skin on your neckand armpitsand back ofthe knee

the only way to get them backis to dancewhile I beat boxall boomshakalackasboomshakalackaboomshakalackaboomshakalackaboom

shaka

lacka

and now we are a pinkish drunk

y o u c a n t s a y t h a t .

MM

the last time she saw jesusit was three a.m. and he was taking swigsof clear alcoholtrying to stay warmat a train station in Bologna.she didnt speak to him, buthe cursed at the little yellow machinethat validates ticketswhen it did not work.she waited as long as she could,smoking her cigarette until it burned her fingertips,and boardedright before the train pulled away toward Florence.she didnt see him get on,but she felt his weight.the first time she saw Himshe was eating her fingers like a meal.she said “someone needs to just cut my hands off”and he saidokay. hedidnt but he could have.he could have done anything to her that night.

she wanted it that way. which is to sayshe was high as hell and scratching some of her freckles offwhen he baptized her with wine.she’d write him letters without knowing where he was,pick out the good parts to ink into her skin.she was just really bored.she just walked around a lot.she never even kissed him on the mouth.

b a p t i z e d i n w i n e

JS

dunk me into the redlike life is NBA Jamz

a

sega

genesis

controller

between crystals

you cannot fuck the

darkness out of people like us

woke up with some bandi originally thought to be

s t r a i g h t e d g e

MM

for robbie;

to be honesta ten second videoof me looking boreddrinking a 40 oz of Colt 45while listening toBaltimore hardcore bandTrapped Under Icescream “I live to spite you”or maybe even“despite you”(wow)is my greatestartisticachievement.

It feels closerthan being pushed into an amplifieror inching under the stairs in a damp basement,but it feels worse.

c o l t 4 5 t h e g r e a t

JS

I have sent you more nude photosfrom this bathroomthan any other bathroom

Colt 45the greateven dads still drink it

I asked youto call me dadbut you wouldn’teven mouth itas we mouthed togetherVia snapchats

I am a watch you are allergic toyou arebloody like diamondsand ants

v o r r e i

MM

i wrote a poemabout the thick fruit juicethat i poured pure strong vodka intoand drank alone in my bedroom in italy.back then i couldstick my head out of my window,burn my knees on the radiator,and see the old men congregatedin the parking lot below our apartment.we used to open the screens even in winter:snow would drift in and landon what little laundry we haddrying on racks.i’d run past another river i grew to be tied to,my lungs would give outas i crossed the train tracks i wassmoking too many pall malls thenbecause of Prague,because I could.i ran up the hills where grapes grew in neat rowswhere the dirt and air were better for the winewe could never afford.i was alonei was a ghost within my own vices.

g h o s t v i c e s

JS

There is a riddleabout vicesthat a person withouta house told me once for 25 cents

It wasthat this jacket makes you look uglyand your voice doesn’tfit your body

throw it away

but don’t give it me

she thenlicked my facelike it was a pokemon movelike I was a digital move

an open letter pertaining to the white spots i see sometimes

MM

a depression forms in the atlantic.the ocean is sad.“it happened becauseyou left” your boots ontracking mud through my bloodstream.i ask you how your day is,like i care.we play house over speaker phone.i am lyingon my backthe clouds swim above me, slowly,and i say im really highbecause i am.o, clouds, charts, Skyhawk,i felt your shape like i felt your knees.this poem will be a homecoming datethis poem will be a jumped fence.just not yet.the oceanis sad.the ocean breathes and breathescurled up in a ballwet and newi want to crawl my way

out of your ocean poem and back in to mineim on the phone with you and i saythis is my poemin florence i heard about a secret bakeryone open all night and there wasan unmarked door you had to knock onor a number you had to callbut i forgot to try it.i remember you told me you had your first kiss thereyou were in high school it was at a clubi remember you told me you practically gave a man a handjobthere in the street it was your second time in that cityyou see you are not that much different from me.i kissed an italian in italy it was gross andbad see i could feel you even thenfeel your fingertips in my tangled hair,your breath on my walls.

s e x t s

JS

two pictures of yourassvibrateinside me

the lewdglowI never text anything back

buttwe foreplay thisfrequently

t o l d m e t o b e c r u e l

MM

I want to climb into her hospital bed(purple sheets, staring at purple ceiling).I want to stroke the white hairthat barely covers her scalp,(mine is knots of dried bloodand scabs like sugar crystals)but my parents thinkI am heartlessso I won’t do a damn thingbecause we are botha little more stubbornthan kind.

s t r e a m i n g b l o o d

JS

At 50 kilobytespers second

Do youfeel me?like reallyfeel mein jeggings

TomrrowI pretend to beyou only plasticin a dodgers helmet

The way we touchis gothic textpixilatedstainsthe sleet

hitting us in timekru kru krush

i am a little bit happier than y o u a r e

MM

the ATM on Quaker and Kingonly gives out cash in ones.so i am going to a strip club.this broccoliis a doughnut.i have no room for rhetorical:when a friend askshow i ami am not afraid to sayi’ve been better.and really mean it.because we are holding hands and i am petting a dog.the catis hiding under the table.i’m tired of being a cat,aloof and alone.i changed my sheetsfor the first time in a while.there are still scabs here but i stopped picking my skin off.i’m not dehydrated.my teeth arent stained red and yellowfrom Barolo and Parliaments.the ceiling was low but now its not. i can see the sun.

i feel superhuman.from the greens.i am not tired:i go to sleep early so i don’t get your drunk dials.i don’t need you like smoke in my lungsand i don’t have to concentratebecause i am not falling in love;there was never any danger in that.your namefeels like a transreverberation.i know because i am smiling.this maniais Euphoria.i mean euphoriais a scent.

l a v e n d e r

JS

rubber between pitsthe mouseinfiltration of‘95

call medefender of the ancients

or a puppy shirt from Petco

sing the power rangers theme song to mewhile I fake sleepadd our namesin randomly

no one can evertake Samantha downthe power is on too tite

t h e d o c t o r

MM

he had the same shirt as my dadit was the same color as my lipstick,now smeared like grease on my toothbrush,parts of my red spit stuck to my tounge.my throat faces the ceiling so i cant notthink about the boys who have seen melike this and if im going to die,its far too few.

( C H 3 ) 2 C H C H 2 C H 2 O N O

JS

inhaling VHS cassette head cleaneron a sex couch

inhaling VHS cassette head cleanerat a draft party

inhaling VHS cassette head cleaneroutside of your dad’s house

glass handsglass face

crush mecrush me

passing around poppersto people wearing snapbacks in west Oakland

r e v o l u t i o n s u m m e r

MM

i wrote an ekphrasis about youand the Promise Ring’s “Electric Pink.”you sent me a picture of yourself,naked with only the vinyl covering you.i posted it on the internet.you know a lot more than me and i dont want to buti am impressed and mesmerizedwatching you moshing into other menpunching the air with your fist.you construct intricate ritualsthat allow youto touch the skin of other men.i like the sweat glistening on your face.i like your face close to mine.there is glitter in my eyes.there is beer on the floor.i know youwant to save those women in the strips clubsbut i know youwon’t go to the key west drag shows.you are an unhinged fence gateduring a violent storm. you arepreoccupied.

i am mercury in retrograde,fucking things upand you kind of like it.we are unclaimed luggage,being conveyor belted in to a black abyss,and back out into the sunlight again.

r i t u a l i s t i c

JS

cocaine circlesaround your bedand toes

tinctures floatingin candle breath

the cocaine circlesfinger us

where is the cat? have you seen the cat?

t e m p

MM

my heart is a bundle of telephone wiresescaping from a styrofoam ceiling.i swear im going to marry an electrician,as if that’s some sort of rebellion.his hair, my husband’s, will be the kind of graythat is indiscernible; we will questionwhether its dust or salt of the earth.i’ll be surprised when he switches to marlboro menthols,i think those are for beginners.currently all of my loverstaste like different kinds of cigarettes.i taste like different kinds of four loko.i used to meet boys in bars and go hometo stalk them on the internet.im am a fool; the cure isi only drink in holes in the walls,i cry on the metro,i wink at myself in dirty bathroom mirrors.i am not going home.i feel like Thomas:stick your fingers in me.

f u l l b l o w n g r i l l g r i n

JS

for everyday tooth lostI have ten gold teeth and a gold eye

I don’t ever smilewhen I mean itI don’t ever smile

I want you to lick my gold toothwith all of your fingers and feathers

I want to give you a tattooof a gold cut and a gold cloud and nothing else

B l a c k B u g s

//

//M e g h a n M i l s t e d

C o v e r B y

Ju l i an Smugg le s

K a t i e C a f f e y