Firstborn

You named me for the red queen
and I became her effigy in black, all
red eyes and chipping black nail polish that I never wore to your funeral because at the time I was too young for nail polish or funerals and Chanel hadn’t yet come out with #40 Noir Céramic in 1989 but when my mother cried Metallic Vamp all over the kitchen tile there was no way of scrubbing it off
without acetone and 2x bleach that she polished all your bowling trophies with before stashing them in a bookshelf at the corner of the basement to collect dust and cobwebs next to a lampshade and half-empty cans of paint thinner leaning against your tarnished five-iron that I’d brandish like the scepter of the Queen of Hearts in paper jewelry and a counterfeit crown since I never became the royal you conceived or unfurled wet wings emerging as your monarch dream, letting the chrysalis ashes scatter from black-red wings— forgive me Father.

Sugar

Bottle blonde twirls behind circus trains,
glaze-eyed, on the L.A. boulevard;
neo-grunge tablecloth skirt glides past
burger joints, tattoo parlors, sundae shops
TVs blasting reality smackdowns
from some tech store window. Too steep
for a glossy hi-def plasma flatscreen
if she keeps lusting after stardust.
A locket grazes her collarbone scars;
neon ballerina flats and clashing prints
defect eyes from scars. Chipped polish, scars
veiled by fingerless gloves, double-stacked rings
and a wristwatch clutch a recycled-paper
coffee cup and grainy tabloid photos.
She ransacks her replica Vuitton:
cell phone, Chapstick, syringes, pamphlets,
Danielle Steel paperback, smack sugar.
razor for a quill. Smack. Cuffs for bracelets;
Blue-red kaleidoscope whisks her away,
cruising over gum wads and glitter,
still chasing the circus from the backseat.

Valse Melancolique

Bloodred sky rains
redhots bleeding
scarlet ooze
tainted sugar swirled with
asphalt and gasoline
heart-shaped oilslick
iridescent with
tears

trail the hemorrhage
into the gutter

free marshmallow cunt
whipped into a confection
doused in aphrodisiac
and commercial innuendo
lust and plastic locked
in a danse macabre

read between the lace and
past the garter

barely above delusion
however much saccharine
sugars it over
romance always tastes better
taken with a dose of
arsenic

all a tarnished ring and
never after

Rhapsody in Bitter

Rhapsody in Bitter

Bloodred sky rains
redhots bleeding
scarlet ooze
tainted sugar swirled with
asphalt and gasoline
heart-shaped oilslick
iridescent with
tears

trail the hemorrhage
into the gutter

free skin free cunt
whipped into a confection
doused in aphrodisiac
and commercial innuendo
lust and plastic locked
in a danse macabre



read between the lace and
past the garter

barely above delusion
however much saccharine
sugars it over
romance always tastes better
taken with a dose of
arsenic

all a tarnished ring and
never after

Phantasmagoria

Phantasmagoria

Nine-thirty-seven p.m.
gazing from the backseat
at layer-cake buildings
swathed in buttercream marble
that oozes filthy lucre;
wondering what lies behind
the flourishes the engravings
behind the verandas
and brass room numbers:
men in Valentino seducing
lushes with lips like kir royale
clutching sleek goldtone vibrators
behind their backs.
I want to blossom into
one of those bitches
with the eight-hundred dollar
haircuts and jutting hipbones,
rocks like grapefruits
on their index fingers;
never loaded or
anorexic enough; and
they’ll call me Queen Bitch
with a rhinestone collar.
I will slather myself
with body shots of Chambord ,
want to be ravaged on satin sheets
and bleed rose petals,
want trash couture
tainted fame in the social circus
from swinging on a chandelier—
Nine-thirty-eight.
The light flashes green and it all
Rushes past in a neon blur.

Gothic and Lolita

Strike of eleven-fifty-nine.
The phantom at the gate glitters her lips in bloodred and bites a snowcake. Her face is spangled in constellations.

Nails lacquered with licorice beckon through candlesmoke.

Clouds of skulls and sugarplums rain peppermints. As I glide past fountains gushing peppermints a grandfather clock winks midnight and waltzing dolls flash doubletone hair in shades of sighs and sex and irony. On a dancefloor of sugarglass exquisite corpses swirl alongside teacups in the shadow lace, all glitter and wings and cupcakes and witch boots. As the piano switches tunes from blush to fuchsia the moon grins at me and I
grin back.

Mirrorball

Shadows drink from the flash of a strobe
pulsing with oilslick swirls flashing in
freezeframe. Rainbow ghosts. The Mad Hatter nods, tipping his tophat:
hydrangea cakes with moon jam tonight,
and a drop of bleeding love in my tea.
I noticed through the iridescence that
radioactive looks smashing on you,
at least in the blacklight. It tastes of
rapture and tinfoil and colorgasm,
like bloodsugar raining down on the tiles;
the kind that moves me to crying opals
or screaming disco canon, only
when the dancefloor isn't looking.

Is That a Chainsaw or Your Shoe: Fashion Trends That Should Be Wiped Off the Face of the Earth

Trends are shining from glossy mags nowadays with more glare than Dick Cheney's bald spot. However, just because it happens to appear in the pages of Vogue doesn't necessarily mean that it should be en vogue in the first place. Even Harper's Bazaar blatantly admits their errors monthly in their Buy, Keep, Store and In/Out sections, which are often filled with shots from past issues where the same things now being decimated were looked upon as the holy grail of fashion. Here, a list of trends whose status as merely acceptable, let alone fashionable, I could never figure out to begin with:

Tent Dresses: better left as performing spaces for fire-eaters and dancing bears. Unless there really is a three-ring circus in full swing around your waist, leave the big top to Barnum & Bailey.

Peasant Shirts: funny how an item of clothing that historically worked the fields of Europe is now seen on women who have never picked up a garden trowel, let alone worked a manual plow. I know the economy is plummeting, but it’s still no excuse to dress the part of a street urchin.

Maxi Dress: If you live in a chronically dry clime where your floors keep repeatedly getting caked with dust, I can see how one of these would save you considerable elbow grease. Otherwise, not only do these wearable salon curtains sweep the grime off your floor, they also take inches off your frame.

Plaid Overload:Some is acceptable when we start heading towards the colder months. But when it's piled on in the form of jackets, shirts, skirts and even tights allatonce, you risk a throwback to 1992. This once again goes to show that there is a fine line between high fashion and Howdy Doody.

Boyfriend Jeans: There’s a reason they’re called “boyfriend”, meaning that’s whose ass these should be covering. Men require extra space in their pants to prevent overheating their undercarriage so their fertility stays intact. Women do not. Leave the grunge aesthetic in the 90’s and find a more flattering style.

Vertigo Hair: clearly drugs and booze were responsible for shipping Amy Winehouse off to rehab, but the hallucinogenic influence on her coif is also highly debatable. After shelling out good cash for all sorts of concoctions to make your hair behave, the last thing you'd want to do is reverse all that and make it beehive.

Mod: Like Dr. Evil, this is one comeback that should have been left in the cryogenic vault. Tarantula lashes, chalky pastels and hair-up-to-there put any normal woman’s face in league with Dame Edna. And the exaggerated geometric silhouettes may still do something for IKEA furniture, but not the female form.

Gargantuan earrings: I’ve seen some pretty bizarre notions of pet carriers but none so obnoxious as dangling an entire birdcage from your ear. Why not stick a canary in there and call it an outfit?

UGGs: For anyone who’s ever been in denial, you now have my confirmation that this hybrid of the mukluk and the moccasin was indeed named for the word “ugly”. And pairing these with miniskirts also adds to the eyesore factor—I have yet to see any Eskimos roaming around California.

Fake lashes: I know we all want to channel Liz Taylor, but we must come to the sad realization that none of us will in fact morph into her any time soon. Sparingly adding a few falsies for a special evening won’t arouse any suspicion that you thought it was Halloween, but an entire inch-long fringe weighing down your eyelids will. And in case no one has really clarified it before, the only time neon or metallic fakes are acceptable is Halloween.

Ultrawide trousers: while the form that the memorial for the Twin Towers should take is hotly debated, manifesting itself in a pair of pantaloons hasn’t yet been thrown out as an option. A moderately wide leg is one thing. One that could easily accommodate a space heater is quite another.

Safari:Alright, I get it: the muddy colors and jungle prints give you a better viewing experience in the Serengeti. You don’t spook the animals because you blend into their natural habitat. Which is fine in Africa. Stateside, despite the fact that the city streets can indeed be a jungle of sorts, it just looks ridiculous.

Jumpsuits: I’m not sure which designer it was who tapped the local auto mechanic for inspiration, but he’d possibly been a little too affected by the gasoline fumes. This is one style that needs an emergency trip to the repair shop.

Sculptural Heels: Is it a chainsaw? A hamster wheel? The Chrysler building? I know that the genre of wearable art is always trying to push the boundaries, but sometimes it just shouldn’t venture past the walls of MOMA.

Reflectively Shiny Lips: I know a mirror is required to apply lipgloss, but whoever decided the gloss itself should be the mirror? Obviously someone who doesn’t own a mirror, because if anybody wearing this stuff stares into one the light will refract straight to her eyeballs and instantly render her blind.

Grandma Florals: Our grandmothers may be bottomless receptacles of wisdom, but donning wallpaper patterns from 1965 doesn't exactly qualify.Take this advice to heart instead: just because Nicole Richie does it, doesn't necessarily mean it's kosher.

Bug-Eyed Sunglasses: Oversized frames are one thing. Oversized frames that take up 90% of the total surface area of your face are quite another. I don’t know when looking like a giant housefly ever became chic, but I’d feel safe to conjecture it never was.

Supersize Bags: A bag that fashionably contains a portable version of your life in it is practical. A bag that can fit your life, a refrigerator, two Rottweilers and an Olsen twin is not.