Dulces Desvarios – Elizabeth Victoria Aldrich
December 11, 2019
X:After Persephone ran an all-girls school
open to all sacrilegious princesses
presently located in the San Fernando Valley–
the pheromones on campus as bountiful
as Aquanet before a first date–
each of us purred for her respective religion,
electric-strung to the hands of our throats.
It wasn’t my first time,
far past breaking the entr’acte
from a hypersonic sixth grade meeting of lips
underneath punk denim and cerise netting.
We have to tell the other girls now:
our gold cage has no more room.
They do not belong here, the atmosphere
is all ours: hearts of ink waltzing over lizard
the smack of mulberry cream.
& so with a laconic strut
I faulted sweetly into the 7AM brilliance
of Sunset Boulevard
& for once palm trees outshone skyscrapers,
the voltaic ruby W, even God’s bottle of
Patron where God doesn’t exist
& what if she did? we’d still
suck suck suck the marrow from
our cigarettes like we knew better
than to quit so young,
& send our smoke off into the aimless sky
with a kiss of bitter lipstick.XXX:
you can only dream up the length of legs
stretched out longer than Ventura Blvd.
Call us what you wish,
but we belong here more
than you ever will.
The sun that burns you
gives us life.
See your face? You smile
like beauty queens who just lost,
who are being showered
with someone else’s confetti.
Why do you try to hold back tears,
to hear anything above the screaming?
There is only silence as the other girl
gets the tiara, its own expensive apparatus
of wand-high Swarovski crystals.
You can hear the beep and clunk
of 90s dial-up as it coyly slinks
from its satin fortress to crown
her brunette curls. What a bitch,
you paid so much for this dress.
You knew water-proof mascara
was a cruel Valentines joke,
but not a treasure saved
for such telegenic blue lighting.
The music is corny Americano, past
your hours and fair-weather friends.
Relatives are saying let’s go home.
They always laughed when you tried
to toddle back to reality, back and forth
with the blacksmith’s daughter.
Now you can eat a hamburger
with extra everything in it,
with enough grease to shine
each goddamn acrylic nail.