Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Lesbian, transgender, zombie, steampunk spanking stories




So, I'm trying really hard to find homes for all of my lost tales....stories tucked away here and there. And poems. So many poems. Some of the stories are weird, some sweet, some dirty. Some are true, most not. The calls I've seen lately just seem to ask for more specific scenarios than I am able to deliver. True tales of cherry-popping lesbian encounters. Transgender fairytales. Zombie spanking stories. As for poetry, holey kamoley. There's an impossible dream. Keep on, keeping on. Sigh.

So here's a three-way poem. Perfect for a cold, dark, rainy Washington night. Perfect for a girl desperately trying to get better and learn and live big and write something that means something in this crazy, literary, smutty, wonderful world.

Blame
A full moon is following me home.
in the rearview mirror,
he winks at me, like an evil clown.
The biggest in a hundred years,
he is tugging at our soft places,
pulling the slop of our guts like tides,
shining in the deep midnight
like the last goodbye,
quivering all sneakily powerful like the last,
sperm-fattened, greasy, greedy egg ever to exist.

Backwoods preachers are inspired
to predict earthquakes
and insanity and some impressive religious fervor.
Why stop there? Let’s just blame it
for every little thing.
Fat people and broken pipes.
Bad breath, leaky roofs
and paper cuts. For stealing
my baby, for wrapping the cord
around her neck, for handing her to me
blue and still and mottled
with cold craters of despair.

I once cut my own hair with kitchen scissors
in a moment of rage. I hid in the dark for
a month, until it grew out, until I could
look into the mirror again without crying.
The moon made me do it,
made me kill my whole family, brought down
the house of cards, caused the burst artery
that flooded the basement that left me wandering.
The full moon is not just
for werewolves, anymore, so go ahead
and get a slice of moon pie for yourself,
while you have the chance.
Everybody’s doing it and it tastes like chicken.

The moon is following me home.
Through the rearview mirror,
he laughs at me like a spider.
He dangles my baby from a thread, wrapped
in moon silk, just out of reach.
But he is not a god
and thus my answer to religion.
Taketh and taketh and taketh.
Now give my baby back.

Big , Bad, Mutherfuckin’ Moon

A full moon is following me home.
Through the rearview mirror, I saw him wink at me,
in a creepy kind of way, like an evil clown.
They say it’s the biggest full moon in a hundred years.
This big, bad moon is tugging at our soft places,
shining in the deep midnight
like the last goodbye, quivering all soft
and gelatinous and sneakily powerful
like the last, sperm-fattened,
greasy, greedy egg ever to exist.

This big, bad moon is inspiring backwoods
preachers to predict earthquakes and insanity
and is spawning some impressive religious fervor.
Why stop there? Let’s just blame that big, bad,
mutherfuckin’ moon for every little mutherfuckin’ thing.
Like fat people and kids who kant spell.
Mean people. Broken pipes. Gum disease.
Toe jam. Moldy bread. Annoying relatives.
Mean, annoying relatives with gum disease, broken pipes
and toe jam who serve moldy bread.

Once, I cut my hair with my son’s grade school safety scissors
in a moment of full moon-induced bad hair day rage.
I had to wear a head scarf for a fucking month. The big, bad,
mutherfuckin’ moon made me do it, made me kill my whole
family, brought down the house of cards, caused the burst artery
that flooded the basement that gave me a wart that stunted my
growth. The full moon is not just for werewolves
anymore, so go ahead and get a slice of moon pie for yourself,
while you have the chance. Why not? Everybody’s doing it
and it tastes like chicken.

Moon in the Holler
A full moon is following me home. In the rearview mirror, it winks at me, an evil clown, a psycho killer. Biggest in a hundred years. Old preacher says it’s a sign, predicts earthquakes and insanity, says God and the moon are in cahoots to make us pay. Why stop there? Let’s blame it for every little thing. Like fat kids, mean people, rheumatism, annoying relatives, bad breath, broken pipes, toe jam, moldy bread. Mean, annoying relatives with gum disease, rheumatism, bad breath, fat kids, broken pipes and toe jam who serve moldy bread. Made me do it, made me kill my whole family, toppled the house of cards, burst the artery that flooded the basement that gave me a wart that killed the pig that gave me worms that stunted my growth. It’s not just for werewolves anymore, so go ahead and get a slice of moon pie for yourself, while you have the chance. Everybody’s doing it and it tastes like chicken. I gun the engine and take a sharp left, skidding on the gravel road, skeleton branches scraping the hood, head deep into the thick pine woods where it don’t shine, won’t follow, can’t be blamed for anything.

7 comments:

Craig Sorensen said...

That's some awesome shit, Gina. Truly.

As you know, I'm a little partial to moon imagery, and these are excellent. So many great lines to pore over and savor, but this one got me good:

Everybody’s doing it
and it tastes like chicken.

Craig Sorensen said...

Oh, and I can relate to the challenge of finding homes for stories and poetry. I have a nice share of oddball stuff that just never seems to match the market.

But I think of it as a good thing.

Maybe we should put out a collection: "Sexy Stories that don't fit the Calls"

Gina Marie said...

Amen to that, Craig! The island of lost stories....they should be rescued.

The moon poem was one I took to a critique group. I started the re-write and realized there are a million different ways to do everything. It's all so subjective.

The one line everyone loved was the one you quoted ;-) Yee!

Craig Sorensen said...

Gina,

Which of the three versions is closest to the poem you took to the reading group?

Gina Marie said...

Craig -- that would be the second one :-)

Craig Sorensen said...

Knew it.

I like your stuff best when you write it from the heart.

Always have.

Verification word: prooton

Gina Marie said...

Thanks, Craig. I can't even begin to tell you how much tha means.