WATER WATER EVERYWHERE my doll, my decapitation
is very political. My ass burns
on the roof of a Cadillac. My ele-
phantine limbs are basically done for.
Her shuttering lids kiss my pointer when I worry the lashes,
jerk her dull body up hard then down hard BIPOLAR WHATEVER
I discovered beer that year. I was Alexander I so discovered the world.
In my loot: the good erotics of hypoallergenic rubber. I keep feeling evil.
A core (detected) of fat girls and B.O. Can I continue being evil?
Can I continue being evil if the geography between my legs
is a holeless plain OOH SHE’S GOT IT BAD.
One girl (“jane doe”) wields a weapon.
One girl (“jane doe”) gives head.
One girl (“jane doe”) gums puny lacquered revolvers slung round her neck.
Its glint fulfills LOVE IS NOT A CONSOLATION
a heading via Simone Weil. I never do find it, so I have longed
to be consoled. The mystics holding their peculiar court,
salutations abreast, a groovy reckoning, white stallion, etc.
FOR THE TIME BEING I could not even bear myself
in any light. Henry and William and other Scholars,
I bow my own little crackled head at their sorry fantasies. And you
do nothing. How many shitty little kids will die before we finish, depends
on the rewards of girl-on-girl. OUTLAW don’t start WON’T YOU
she ends with a psalm of her own miraculous design: but now
in my very young age I’ve known little I shy away from much
all I’ve know so far of love is death which is a great deal to know
but not enough
Molly Rose Quinn was raised in Memphis, Tennessee. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Black Warrior Review, Everyday Genius, Coconut, Two Serious Ladies, No, dear, Four Way Review, The Fiddleback, Singing Saw Press' Parallax, and elsewhere. She lives in Brooklyn. She works for the literary programs at Symphony Space in Manhattan, and also with the Brooklyn Book Festival, the Moby-Dick Marathon NYC, and The Atlas Review.