Lynn Crosbie & Robert Siek

Ultimately I'm Just a Canadian Girl Tweeting an American Boy, and Asking Him to Violate Me on a Kitchen Floor

We can scrub the floor on all fours, turn over and watch the ceiling. Our closeness will stain
undies, leave holes breathing.

Falling stars–shaped holes, bodies cooling like parfaits: yours is the memory of cream, and mine
the cherry-red caterwaul.

Genderless, die-in-a-house-fire obese, we roll belly up, one in a morphsuit, candy-cane striped,
and melt sheet vinyl flooring.

Boom down the ceilings to the street and rise, picking off cars and towers, to kiss the moon's
face, to rest and graze.

We four arms, two legs, Shiva slams more punk than, ass fucks against Dumpsters, flings blood
and makes new diagrams.

Pooling into maps, an entire atlas that plays "Oye Como Va" at Antibes: we go there when we
are small: our feelers swoosh.

We go: holes dragged on carpet, mutt excited; our hind legs higher, we pant hard on pages, shake
beach sand free both ways.

Make the firmament quake, where will the stars go I mouth inside of you, into the pitch and
rouge muscle and silver glory.


Disco Miracle 

Married three years, he dries up and she stays limp. WTF. She still laces her hands round him in
bed, in lizard-drag still—

iguanas on rocks all swimsuit-issue spreads, Mayan ruins, excursion to the Yucatan, she climbed
alone, his knee injury below.

This injury jams her on top if he gives in. But he just says OOF or Quit it! as she pogos like Sid,
black lip rises, No fun.

No tongue or Iggy or the Pistols, radio, or loudspeakers, she's frog legs again, butterfly wings,
no panties and showing

He's discovered coke or Disco he says peevishly, strutting his silver and glass modified balls, his
thick hustler's tongue.

She watches him enter the bathroom; he does some dance move in the doorway, one ass cheek
showing, briefs a size too small.

Closer, she says. Hard with fear he snaps the elastic of her u/pees; she puts on his mother's teeth,
squats, rims him good.

Handsy and all palms, he spreads hard, sixteen on a raised deck, bare-assed, shouting "red eye"
to his buds below, their girls.

Sailor, she slams, then inverse-flowers at the memory of the Pasha unwinding his turban and
breathing opium into her mouth.

Now crouched, her calla lily sucks face, rain-soaked safety mask filling mouth. He gasps. She
still tastes him, smells him.

Now, rising, clatter of jilted knives, she abrades his neck with rosettes and prays to his lambskin
lips with wet lovegush.

He smiles snake-dancer touched, sees spooks. Loose hold on a tall jarred candle, points hard
toward her, thick as the Pasha.

Thicker: a rouged silo weeping honeydew, her jaw unhinges to take in the rosy weight, fingers
vanish in his teardrop-balls.

And this is commitment, good things happen, wait, not an anniversary, warm skin polyamide
fabric, a tower wrapped by Christo.

The year of gold and ashes, Pharoah-love remains, a glitter of bone-smash: how he, how you
clutched my face and kissed me.

The Gulf of Mexico incoming, she stood sea-misted on top of a temple, cliffside, Mayan. She
imagined dry blood on the rocks.

Real blood: she had filled him with arrows and God, she said, God let us live forever/you and I
livid with pain, changing.

Breeze that high, when it's right, it's right, mirror ball in daylight, eyes open too long. They, we,
keep coming back for more.


Pink Tinsel 

In the sequel, she misses him so much she makes a quilt of strangers' skin and cries rotten pears.

The picnic basket packed, four settings of great grandmother's china, the steak knives chosen
from a catalog.

Such are her fever dreams, lock of his Tréssemé-heaving hair charging her voodoo, jagged bolts
of white lightning in a pail.

Bent forward over a piano, the impact of hips no-seatbelt flight into an airbag—scratches on the
hardwood floor, toes curled.

Palms bang "Liebestraum" and "Vicious": he grows still more arms, the wolf, and her eyes make
painted saucers of moon lakes.

Outside a failure, no meal prepared, not even crackers with cheese. Songs not played in this
house, please blow it all down.

But for the hellbilly of stiff jeans slid over V-bones and his sweet belly, split with a downward
arrow of black fondant.

She drops, knees on wall-to-wall carpet, dirty socks, underwear, caught in a corner of a laundry
bag, the smell like here now.

Falls on his haunches liberally atomizing Fleurs de Rocaille, writes, with a scalpel, GRASS FED
TENDERLOIN, tastes the drip.

Fingers up, one strand of Christmas lights flash, synchronized with wet hook hand, working,
nightie around neck, skinned disco.

Retrieving French ticklers, a strand of pink tinsel that counts down Fat Man, the black holes' first
shimmer then boom.

Silent living room, furniture, her huff and puff wind down, his cock rests, lightning struck,
facedown in a valley, ashes pile.

Peace passes understanding, bounces. The next way in is with a chainsaw, she's afraid and so
kisses him like ravening fish.

Her nude leftovers in a field, deep pelvis gutted, kids home around four, then the husband, cold
quilt in bed, clean sheets.

And so she lay down each night, eyes rolled into oeufs. Later, in the cold grass she fell apart.
Unto him, wet dahlia heat.

Always scents by Caron and sweat between his legs, the first time with mouth, hands, now turn
around. Maybe a picnic tomorrow.


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Lynn Crosbie is a Toronto-based writer and critic who wrote her dissertation about Anne Sexton and the confessional poets. Her most recent collection of poems, about her father, is entitled The Corpses of the Future. She and Robert Siek wrote these poems convulsively, on Twitter. 

Robert Siek is the author of the poetry collection Purpose and Devil Piss (Sibling Rivalry Press, 2013), as well as the chapbook Clubbed Kid (New School University, 2002). His second book of poetry, We Go Seasonal, will be published in 2018, also by Sibling Rivalry Press. He lives in Brooklyn, New York, and works at a large publishing House in Manhattan.