CARLIE BLUME

 
 

Warm Meal

In the shower I fall apart.

From tangled hair
I pull small
rodents
fragile nests
that form soggy shapes

strands that snake,
conjure scenes from lives past,
liberties yet to be won
all the bull shit
screamed into my face

against tile
I am captive
blasted water kissed crimson
by my downfall,
sheds off
retired skin
I submit 

exfoliation is crucial in moments like these.
Don’t forget to remove all
remnants of primitive life

pluck nascent hairs

from

swollen areolas
rid

bungling big toe of its
dark thicket

until
I can face open air again
reduced,
yet in bloom
my fragrance,
a warm meal waiting
to be
devoured
by all who are              starving.

/

Carlie Blume is a Vancouver born writer of poetry and fiction as well as a 2017 graduate of SFU’s The Writer’s Studio. Her work has been featured in The Maynard, Loose Lips, Pulp Mag and Train: a poetry journal. She is currently working on her first collection of poetry as well as a novel.

 

Gigglepuss

Another house party                                                                     spare beds brush thick like
hogweed

a door slammed shut sits tight                                       wedged against gigglepuss
grins                                                 snickering sallys

spectators                                            
at a colosseum

inside on loose sheets pinned a hearty
specimen stripped of its UV glass
a framed display of butterfly wings                                                                           of semi-
conscious taxidermy

a young man kneels                                                                                beer bong thrush gives
permission                                when circumstance
wont

his face bleeds initiative a real go-getter                            a blistering sublimation a complicit
shush
while wobbling penis is released from denim thorough bush                 keyhole stuffed
into a quiet sliver of shallow breath

we like to                                 party                            we like
we like            
to party

sun rise her mouth slammed shut sits tight
opens not even for
vomit that
exits cleanly from
nasal passages
she awaits the tender touch
of cold porcelain of
water cupped loosely in the
heart of her palms
and she trips past the silence
a raucous animal howl
a narrow escape.