Say cold--
see it’s so-- yearn overload. Change
the cord, dissed. Rouge contented--Bore
no spirit
stressor, or mention of a parlor in the
tempo Fugue.
To me, few inseams (eight) are mercy’s
promise.
Quarrel under, and see crude leeches-- adage
the same.
Shall I desire bright fruit? Air a
suppresser?
And dent road all my disco? I’ll pry ur
pretty pyrite.
Test the spigot-- the palm sobbing more.
A mess
Lasts-- so not so. Me v blistered and
read I’ve been
cheaper. Far pew dogs lie oh so long--
my vital
aim or my polished ad usage, insidious best.
Adore the quell-- Chill or let my
sovereign
chain answer all. Did the letdown
party’s
upbeat chime evoke safe nonsense? Neat.
Ellen Boyette is a poet and essayist whose work is interested in the occult, the internet, and objects real or imagined. She received her MFA in Poetry from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop in 2019. Her first book of poetry, BEDIEVAL, was a finalist at Slope Editions Books, CSU Press, and Inside the Castle. She is the author of two chapbooks, NITROUS OR MY VELVET KNIFE and CUFFINF SEASON. Her work appears in the Action Books blog, jubilat, The Columbia Review, Denver Quarterly, Prelude, Bennington Review, poets.org, and elsewhere.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
