Dylan Krieger – 3 poems


at time x     expect ex-
patriotic    terror tactics
to tear us    all a new
immaculate      like later
on miss     mangy martyr
mary mack       all dressed
in black     & heart attacks
the nuns tuck    guns under
their robes     hope that
bad habits     fallout next to   
deus ex-     impossible
machine       unwashable
warning three-    personed
heart-batterers    to mind
their meathead     cleaning

sweep that     dirty soul    
under the rug     the only
carnal rush       round here is
quid pro tug     slug for slug
we’ve held an     evenhanded
firefight   congrats! well done
good looking     out for no. 1
red utmost god     of cranial sun
eternity hurts best    when he
burnouts young    every sunday    
at dawn     over & over as if
on rinse cycle     but I’m already
over it by 25     look: how did
jesus wait   so long   to bite it?

the tundran

keep spinning fast for full effect. I found a fractal stuck to the bottom of my flask, and I slid slow to know it hadn’t fucked me proper yet. it was a thick nettle of rot, giving me the tentacle eye from the long walk down the dock. I slurred, please, jehovah, let that be a jellyfish. please, el pacha, may my muzzle pour out stars.

oh, excuse me. perhaps that was a bad translation. from the tundran.

instead, may the mastiff always vomit angels. or, let my mouth-skin leak a better barge. either way, all the sea mammals are spitting out dead shivas. either way, we are smoking red gas. the incense on the altar is now the exhale of the antelope. the a-bomb is a jackal pup in heat. the crucifixion is forever a chimeric bit of monsterpiece: head of a god, hind of a lion, tail of a vulture.

when the shitting spree is done and we are all let in, the afterbirth will be first, and the reeds will inherit the earth.


visit station

on the corner of no coordinates

the swamp bats
its moss lashes
at frustrated gators

no one’s ever
southerned your bones
or dug black holes

up inside your nowhere
lighthouse, the storefront

OF DEATH, where sequin feces

stick to their designer

alien intestines, naked insects
sporting rapid adaptations
burned into their undercarriage

sure that one day it will be
the shadow of a piss-filled wave
that tides us all over

one last tine in the iris
of the god who sheds his
iridescence-studded skins

in the name of crisis
in the name of scythepress
ultraviolence—            you try

to fight it, but he still can
see those neon-mired sphincters
even through your eyelids


Dylan Krieger lives and works in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, where she recently earned her MFA in poetry and co-directed the annual Delta Mouth Literary Festival. Her cats and warm jackets, however, still reside in the Catholic stronghold of South Bend, Indiana, where she was born, baptized thrice, and graduated summa cum laude from the University of Notre Dame. Her first full-length collection, Giving Godhead, won LSU’s Robert Penn Warren award for best poetry thesis of 2015. She is currently collaborating with her partner, Vincent Cellucci, on a book of poems satirizing common action movie tropes.


About gobbet

gobbet is a literary magazine dedicated to publishing the very best experimental poetry and prose. Intellectual perversity and explorations of dark themes are positively encouraged. We are only interested in work that is progressively experimental. We want to see risks, and we want to see them pay. No previously published work. Prose should not be longer than 1000 words. There are always exceptions. Send 3-5 poems. Include a short bio. Send submissions to gobbetmag@hotmail.co.uk Work will be published every 5-10 days. We also intend to publish anthologies of selected work published in gobbet. We will do our best to reply promptly. Most submissions will receive a decision within a month.
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