corpse girls

corpse girls stroll down main street with their heads for a purse // corpse girls prefer ashes to caviar, line their eyes with tearsalt, their lips with gravedirt // corpse girls moisturize the autopsy stitches on their chests // corpse girls don’t sweat, they’re cool as a tomb // corpse girls glide by, designer cerements trailing behind them // corpse girls have traded their pearls for maggots, their makeup for lividity, the nightclub for the morgue // corpse girls drink whatever is offered them, guzzle down libations & bloody marys by the glass // corpse girls chew charon’s obol for gum // corpse girls become corpses for many reasons, circumstances vary (though their fathers are often involved) // some corpse girls descend willingly into their corpse-existence, others are hurled into it like a stone in a well // corpse girls are delusional & in denial // corpse girls dream incessantly // corpse girls have had their lives interrupted prematurely, their hopes axed in half // corpse girls know they should’ve died for real years ago so they wear this pseudo-death as a wish, as a rebel yell // corpse girls hover in doorways, uncertain // corpse girls can’t seem to make up their minds // corpse girls are paralyzed by fear like deer in headlights // corpse girls are docile & demure // corpse girls would like to scream but their mouths are filled with cotton // corpse girls carry their urns on a leash // corpse girls mourn religiously // corpse girls inter themselves // corpse girls are translucent & weightless // corpse girls study their ashen faces in the mirror, cheeks hollow, mauve shadowing their eyes // corpse girls bleed freely // corpse girls arrive on time for their own funerals // corpse girls just want to be laid gently into the cold earth // corpse girls are spiteful & judgmental & bear grudges forever // corpse girls decompose discreetly // corpse girls visit the cemetery to lay roses on their graves // corpse girls are patient & bide their time // corpse girls are sharpening their knives // corpse girls aren’t truly dead, only idling

nobilis // lacrimalis

it begins: dread     unleashed
like an arrow— must
spring, must escape        god
-breath hot
on your neck, heart rustling,
extremities gone    numb.  
sudden fear: limbs leaden + rigid like marble—
outrunning danger no longer possible.
agony:     touch bark where once was skin.
discharge on the roots of your toes
—substance unclear— god’s
tears or other?
metamorphosis: complete. body
unbreached but mind unspared.
sole consolation: no longer
girl—no longer target.       encased
in shroud of perennial silence.
the pith of the tragedy: can now speak
only through catalyst— wind,
assault.  





a.d. is drawn to the sacred, the profane, the mysterious and the mythological, which provides inspiration for her work. She is an award-nominated bisexual poet, writer, and visual artist, with work published in HAD, Don't Submit!, Apocalypse Confidential, Plague Circus, Bullshit Lit, and elsewhere.

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