Elisabeth Workman & Michael Sikkema



and the crows and the mascots
and the falcons splayed
pin-ups played against a war-proof
glass ceiling, asses reeling on
the opposite roof. I blew
a wad wordward, a flaming brick
establishment cloudwards
and there was colonialism and then loneliness
and then torrential rains of angel parts that tasted
like vegan brain fevers. O they tasted of Spring.
The levers I verged on the nervous
shoulder, sucking my thumb blood like some Ford
capitalist but I was really just a pugilist
satanic virgin mother with a box full of
lanyards, a box void of barnyards soldered
to uterine truth. Sister Ruth, I hung cherries
from the nostrils of freshly dead yolos. I assigned
centaurs to the rabbits, the rabbits to the torpor.
I ripped tarpits apart in search of better written
raptures. The stature of every spirit animal
came into question, into a plastic cup. Holy aura
of noisy matter make me
flush with foamy pleather and whether its mysterioso
compounds rounds my tender. Cuz right now I go
for a walk and get lost and right now I grow
claws from my laws and I’m unknown
to use them in intimacy. In intimacy the laws
clasp and strangle the safe words,
all the innocent googly eyed ones wet with want.




Don’t go all friendly fire on the wardrobe
crew just because Don’t Tread 1776.
Don’t burn your bridges, little imps,
bomb them, three charmed times, call it
Operation: Future Tents. And in the remains
which are always hole-shaped
plant greeny flowers IDK you
can try offering masters too
or pieces of acclaim but so much
gets lost in trying to remain
in an out-of-order bonnet and weird
period clothing. What do you even mean
by that codpiece, podboy? There is blood
on the banks steps and a blood clot
clinging to the sun. It’s the original colony,
it’s on a stamp, its national anthem is
bloodletting. The ghost of saturation sucks
up anyone for fun one-limb excursions
it’s like you’re there and also
not. The ghost of one-limb writes
accordion-style and with every squeeze
out another alien flows, toying fiddles
and clits. The new word
is hardflow in the sleepless puddle
and there will be another breakfast
delay cuz I can’t touch your tongue
right now and you can’t pray
right O-shapes and I can’t take another detour
past the ribcage drool, thanks. The book is by
the would-be booze the would-be
barbiturates by the door to door switched
to witches only more sewn in.`




This is my beforebody reckless
neck full and leering how do you
like it afterbody? Is there a moisturizer
for shunned astral projections?

Asshole resurrections?
Shofar insurrection?
Twofer predilections?

So many possibilities molt
and meaning’s bolt is only interesting
when it fails, falls short of full frontal
rotation, rams the seasick insides.

O moaners’ ship. Ownershit. Shake
skin, fore and aft. I can’t cut it free
boat. Come daft, drift underling bodies, hey
you drinking songs of the drownlands.

Hey, you master slave songs
of those with a choice. Raise the ord
my bod to seep. Forebodies. Four bodies
in a contractual embrace. Verboten bodies
bitten in broad day bodies. Ay
bodies. Lay play display bodies in
the fresh fucked flower way. This was

a time of electric bodies, wanting
to struggle in dark baggage,
zipperheaded puddles splooging out.
Good evening, overfull bodies—time
bodies, needing time head, glass half
clinking bodies linked in arrears, sleepy
profile flower bodies thinking
shit bodies did you mean devolution

or evolution that’s noise and every
sound is another collar bone marimba
another ribcage vibratory ode another
jaw lute another uterus flute another
blue sac maraca itch itch itch
itch itch itch




Wizard Bottoms $50.50 Tzar Face
$19.17 Prosthetic tenderloins and/or
love boat T-bone chaps, it’s too hot out
modular swingers. The middle finger
is the finger of destiny, our third mind
now available in feedback, wolf
tickets and a little strapless black
tourniquet. Turning tricks in the thick
third act of torture porn culture, OTM is
comfortable with owning an ass-
hole at the ATM in full view cigar chompers.
Light streams from its lunar mouth
in the solar phase called pop ball-gag gods
of the super moon aftershow now trinkets
on the cosmic ego collar. $69.71

Kind of an o-ring oracle sort of thing. 3-4-$5.

Muss a tuft and fire up a wand release, OTM
antennae probe the mystery fur
night, sobered and throat bound,
braid some naked in the upbraid
upbringing brought down chemically. It knows
kitty people where they wait
all insouciant, LOL in the earth warm
cadaver song gone viral gone choke chain
on the pandemic dawg repression. $100.
Let me slip into something less
Freudian less Ford Escort for this new
mewling moon. Let’s slip soon. Let’s lap the edges
of its dark milk loam with our phantom
tongue crowd out-of-control fleurs du mal-
adjusted. OTM spasms
in the whelp wild, an open field
of laceration a corpse thrum a confused
hum—o masochistic calico—
fail fail fail a falling out warp power
this purr a vestigial conflagration.
$[cost of beast] or best outrageous barter.



Elisabeth Workman & Michael Sikkema both live inland, in states that begin with the letter M. They feed monsters in the alley about how the midwest was won.

GestureElisabeth Workman & Michael Sikkema