THREE POEMS by INDIGO PALMER
Hagsploitation
Olivia de (Hag)illand—cold steel bars won’t you gouge out my eyes? Oh, Melly! We’re going to, Melly? Aged like milk. No wonder there’s no roles for—Lady in a Cage, your son is French! But he’s not from France! Maybe me? When I’ve drank too many dirty Shirley Temple was a bad girl she played politics with the big dogs into her old age. And what have you done for your country, Olivia? I have always thought that the most important person involved in any film is the Director. Crawford turned it down. Montgomery turned it down. You what? Hitchcock had flair and class, and both of these ingredients are completely lacking in this drab film! Do you hear that Olivia? It’s 1964, get a grip. Get a nose job for God sakes. Look what it did for Liz Taylor! At least put that paper-bag stocking over your head and pipe down. The orgy will commence in 10, 9, 8, are you watching? Are you listening? The liquor cabinet is full of peach schnapps and I’m filling up a water bottle for the football game. Like you I’m just a spectator, watching sweaty brutes brutalize other sweaty brutes. And maybe peeking up a skirt or two (don’t tell my mother, she’s got Jesus jugs and a strong disliking for sexual maturity). Aren’t concussions hot? Jump out of that elevator and you’ll see. You can steal a toaster but you can’t steal a clawfoot bathtub. Still, I’ll die trying. Two stars for Olivia but none for the rest. I doubt whether Hitch would have unnecessarily thrown in a dead dog!
Commercial Break
This elegant carnation is for him (for his lapel) or her
(for her hat) and features a lazily rolling loading symbol.
Everyone who encounters the flower will know something
big is coming. The death of buffering ends with a video of
Joe DiMaggio drinking the last of the pickle juice, filmed
in spectacular technicolor. The carnation folds into itself
after, obscuring its tiny screen to achieve a more natural
effect. It’s a great gift for sock hops or funerals. All your
guests will be sure to love it.
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Jackpot!
Got my diagnosis today: Binge Eating Leftovers.
I must stick my fingers in every sad remnant of
fajitas or emotional baggage I see.
It’s just me and the butter knives now. I throw them at
the stuffed rabbit tied to my Lazy Susan.
I put away my sense of entitlement. It got in
the way of my parka.
A thread of snot slips from my nose and hisses as
it slithers away. Shakespeare couldn’t have predicted
the poeticism of NyQuil.
Makeup should never be worn after Bastille Day.
Marie Antoinette was more than just a talking head.
I talked to God on FaceTime. He told me manatees are his
perkiest creation and that we could learn a lot from them.
A tractor rolls over in the snow. It requests a belly scratch and a
jug of apple cider.
All this and more can be found in the aphrodisiac
section of the local grocery. Yes, everything is there.
Indigo Palmer (she/her) lives among the post-modernist hippies of lower Oregon, and maintains a death grip on her Creative Writing BFA from Southern Oregon University. She dabbles in extreme lava lamp watching and avoiding the excruciating experience of being truly known. If bewitched, you can find her other work in the Wellness Zine, or under the name Rita Redd in the Lunch Break Zine, Wild Roof Journal, Book of Matches, and Jokes Literary Review. Twitter; Instagram.