Erin Lyndal Martin

Load up your Stratocaster & your incandescent porthole
                                 an eyeball coped through gold band,
           Mr. Radiotower, Mr. Longshot, Mr. Bloodtest, Mr.
                                                                Relax, don’t do it--

           don’t do it. the nuns have calculated your time of arrival
                           in anticipation of the time between landing gear
                         and your buttonfronts opened like a suitcase

only to free prophecies from watchbands:
                                 husband, this drug is too slow
                                 father, this drug is too slow

the riverbank of the Mississippi
travels south from cove to cove
the copious hollowings
cut through marshbank

           can you stand sir yes sir
           can the mermaids sing each to each
           can you not inhale
           can you watch a peach devoured
           and bite down on a single fig

                           this pastoral speeddating clogging
                                                   artery and the bottom nine

           oh for a taxi to break down
           oh for you to cry like a girl at the cherry blossoms
                                             to have entry beyond the elastic band
                                             at the top of thigh high pantyhose

           what do they call that thing, the fulcrum that holds the tights over the leg?

                         already in your journal those tights are yanked off like skin
                                                   on an avocado all the alligator bits
& to be in this moment
like puppy chow sent into a kind of orbit

                                          and the thwack of her body on her body
                                                 target practice for the damned
                           you’re bloodless you’re an arpeggio
                                     you’re reaching into your pants

                           like a very obvious magician pimping
                           eyeballs, the heart is one of those flowers

                      that opens once twice sometimes no happy,
                                                                  you say, only love.

no happy. queer as a fortune cookie in bad translation.

                      your brother in Tokyo dressed as a girl last year
                      you’re sworn to secrecy, sworn to records, sworn to
                                                                             nostalgia, sworn an oath
                                                                             to what’s his name the one
                                                with the hair the one who they called the lizard king
                                                and didn’t die in his sleep

                no by now the girl cavorters have dropped their shoes,
                                                  have gone inside, a melting like drugs
                                                                       you’ve packed your telescope
                                                                                      army of plastic soliders
                                                                                      armed with plastic radios,
                                                                                      armed with arms, hands,
                                                                                                            hands, mr.
                                                                                             happy, mr. good day
                                                                                             sunshine, happiness
                                                                                             is a warm schlong
                                                                                             when you don’t
                                                                                             shoot to kill--

                                                                       the lust the windowscreen
                                                                       the soprano shrieks all over
                                                                       you fallen like gingko leaves
                                                                       to fan your face tugging jerking
                                                                       quick strange at your command,
                                                                       general air and space, check your
                                                                       heart is lily white check the cabin
                                                                       pressure check for liftoff

the starvation & so you visit vineyards
on business trips with imperatives
slung and slung suspenders to hold
your heart in to keep your body in check

                   I will just sit in this chair and watch
                    I might touch myself but
                    I really love my wife

Erin Lyndale Martin’s work has appeared widely in such journals as PANK, La Petite Zine, Typo, Cannibal, Tarpaulin Sky, and many more.