by Jules Archer
Glory Days
the prom queen of
scorn and
dirty knees
miss
Beverly hills
missed suicide thrills
middle name always never,
not never
a fictitious faction
force fed plums
pudding
prettiness and primp
delight goes down with a
silver-coated spoon
castor oil tongue
and shit-stained hands
Baking Cakes for the Enemy
I.
Everything feels kind of numb and peachy. The candy-colored speculum, a rune of ancient miscreant behavior fired up and ready, Freddy. Why/Therefore/Nevermore, she sings to the man in the white coat, not sure of the saying but the meaning clear. With a delicate touch in mind, she turns it off and tunes it out.
II.
Folds the sheet and creases it clean. Bakes banana bread to doneness. Fires up that one lone cigarette, buried in the bottom of a purse and looks in the phone book under E. Anyone have a cure for an Existential Crisis? Take two razor blades and call me in the morning.
Hyuck, hyuck, hyuck.
III.
It’s all in the wrist. The flick of it. I will not tell a lie tattooed cursive-like on its inside. She eats her cake and drinks her tea. Keeps her hands red at night and learns with a tight jaw. She’s woman. Jellified into good and the evil. A slim factory of modernity; give her a shit storm of heavy and crazy. She wants it all.
She recognizes herself in mirrors and bleaches her soul in the bathtub.
Somewhere between being born and raised in the backwoods of Montana, Jules Archer developed a craving for the written word. Today, she writes random stories of great genius and heartbreaking torpor while reading Playboy and sipping Blue Moon in her spare time. Jules Archer has appeared recently or is forthcoming from Metazen, Monkeybicycle, Negative Suck, >kill author, PANK, Northville Review and elsewhere. She writes to annoy you at: http://julesjustwrite.com/
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