the ghost of x-mas jazz is growing scalpel-tipped wings again
telling me I was forever right on time until I turned 25

when my hive mind lost patience for pop stars, designer 
drugs, fight scars, and my dr. informed me tactful 

millennial masochists pay the pros the big bones for sterile 
needles, just-curious biopsies, exploratory surgeries w/ only 

minor high-times pain relief, so I hopped on that bandaged 
bandwagon, staggered my breathy screams as he bored

gorgeous molehills into my skull at equal intervals
maybe it was the vibration but, baby, it felt just like your

long lost lover’s stroke, with all the blood blocked out the brain 
and dropping down into our doll parts parsed out dissected by a moan



i hope no liquefied storage terminal can sleep at night
in their groundswell, the ardor deli riots have formally begun

the double-kick drum of the hungry heartspan gagged w/ stones
i love so my throat will fill up with noxious terrible gonging

so my teeth will melt just enough to turn sticky like glue
then the swallows descend w/ their iron lungs & shrugged logic

when birds freeze to death on the streets i wonder why
i’m the only one gawking, sauced & scary-eyed

w/ wispy pink hair standing on end at the end of the world
there is nowhere to put all the soiled rags, nowhere that sags

quite like nature’s jagged red teat, but now when we suckle
the rainforest it transmits HIV through its breast milk

strokes our misshapen heads like it’s sorry but it’s not sorry at all
if my bedsores don’t suppurate the junkie guilt of what have you, what will?

Dylan Krieger is a pile of false eyelashes growing algae in south Louisiana. She lives in a little cottage with a catfish and her demons and sunlights as a trade mag editor. Her poems have appeared in Quarterly West, Local Nomad, Deluge, Juked, Coup d’Etat, Small Po[r]tions, Smoking Glue Gun, and Tenderloin, among others. Find her at http://www.dylankrieger.com