X-machine
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
reading BEAUTYGIANT:
RESUME THE DONKEY SHOW
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.
gobbet 