Delilah for Red’s X
Well I tweet tweet ‘n’ high-tail it outta ya,
‘til August’s so hot in her czar.
Me so sorry, sir,
that you take it all for fodder
and fret for.
Red’s x sets -ettes raging tight-assed to the naught,
and Oedipus Rex has taught them all
to do the lollipop, where in no man’s land
These streets come railing with all-seeing nuance,
as many times it takes for you
to know who you are, bruh,
guinea pig at the pop ‘n’ go,
Eros pops a pill and fibs delight
as rose raws.
I am old enough to know the red leaf’s sexiness,
so tragically crossed,
as I am old enough to know
when I’ve petered out,
clinging to her curtsy
as raw saws off the bough.
What only was remaining was baffling,
sitting in the citamora, reveling
in fun’s great rut.
When I left it was Occam’s freak scene,
caught up in erotic flop.
Skulk it in curtsying sighs.
Hot ciao for kicks and cultivates
the pope whose woes blow art
and ulna wonders why you oil the ace
up her slight.
-ettes on the rag in a floorshow,
edited by brothers whose eels have lost it.
And you start thinking god created murder
out of pure kindness,
for it’s any sunbeam’s fortune
to die quiet.
Ergo, orbital eyes are bullets
and the limits are set.
Then stardom usurps the contents of the skull
with its skirts,
so real you nigh well pop,
While nevers tempt seers
to hard knock and trickledown.
Rosey cats send ravishing Eros
to cap off the fun.
Sweet cyclical hysteria,
I smell the rum on his breath,
so I look to the moon when I’ve nowhere to run.
Occam battles such row aforementioned
in a kind of wild funk.
Buoys in a school of love wars,
sire’s citadel, tucked
I take it you’ve seen him in passing.
Yet Deborah barges in,
and I’m seasick only when the gin
I’d leaf through sea salts
if only for a diamond
in the row.
Two buoys for every am
in decided seas.
So I’m singin’ on the nod,
crying codfish from my eyes,
just as any misses dressed in algae
worms through anemone
to pop the question—
of a lavish eight million-dollar
Might suggest deny.
Kind fodder may rub those too old
But with regards to sire seas,
mine’s a noggin full of gin
and a baby on its knees—
an ode to the tire swing.
Odds are you’d save a wretch
only to end up in nets.
O, the elles you’d leaf through
to find adore.
But only the killer
will row his way
So guard me, memory,
so I’ll never remember
the wake up.
Kim Vodicka grew up in Lafayette, Louisiana and received her B.A. in English from UL Lafayette in 2010. She is currently working on her M.F.A. in Poetry at LSU, where she is also a Graduate Teaching Assistant and was Co-Coordinator of Delta Mouth Literary Festival 2012. Her artwork has been published in Tenderloin, and her poems have been published in Shampoo, Ekleksographia, and Dig. Her first book, Aesthesia Balderdash, is forthcoming in June 2012 from Trembling Pillow Press