Starless Chopper

For heaven has been sold

My lapsed

My Languid star

Diminished throat calling

Cold opening, hello

Fast asleep my fallow dove

Baby flips a nickel on his thumb to see

Last year’s exhibit

Worthless actress in a

Hundred acre wood

The theater’s smokeless ashes

Blonde hair gleams the pity schmuck

Stranger dust face

Retribution comes for loss or what’s worse

Wedding entrance of parlay the field

Oh hollow angel

Fapping in the basement

Won’t my lozenge let me in

Peter Rabbit

Magic piece of shit glass

The witch’s limb is stuck between

A lapdance and the floating door

Bitchface in the oven

Call the castle moat hopper

Wristwatch in the coffin’s

Going off again

Bridesmaid drinks God’s piss

Beneath Me

How becomes a cuckold, evangelist surface wheel?
I lie awake in bed and ask my father
what he meant by that
behind the wheel, star embellished
BMV voltage, quick shot fucker
staring at him emblematic of
disgust. The night is blessed in liquid emptied
skies while I lie here dead in the crying arena
of another silent fainted emblem.
To lay is a pretty service. Go west, estrogens,
and all your dreams may lie in
barbiturates of masturbation flamed blue
on a semi-automatic windshield.
Next to nothing Peter Pan inebriate snout
column sucking pain into its seedy
orifice. The candle is useless, its wick cut
by the trapeze angel who
pins her to the bed asleep.
I stoop to pick him up,
my coffin a stump of wood between sun and
the basketball player motion of waste paper disposal.
Machines are no erotic surface,
does my photo contain the limp clipped dipshit?
The lice-infested, wall-slept cherub
buried in the valve of a cherry pit?
Snow White places a pie in the window
for someone’s impish love.

Cassie Vogel holds an MFA in Literary Arts from Brown University, where she received the Keith and Rosmarie Waldrop Prize for Innovative Writing. Her work has appeared in Annulet, Keith LLC Journal, mercury firs, and elsewhere.