C͓̽h͓̽u͓̽c͓̽k͓̽l͓̽e͓̽f͓̽u͓̽c͓̽k͓̽e͓̽r͓̽

I.
Confirmed CIA asset Gloria Steinem once wrote,
we are becoming the men we wanted to marry
So I must be putting on my clown makeup,
smeared joker grin spreading
from hoop earring to hoop earring.

II.
Groupies were the original frackers
extracting liquid energy and trading it
back and forth between each other,
five straws digging into one milkshake.
Am I right?

III.
I survey the green room’s innards
for the roundest, sweatiest man
with hopes to be his prize.
I throw my head back and laugh.
I lick the rubber soles of his Vans.
I hope I’m invited to Canter’s after this!

IV.
Does anyone else love to feel tarnished?
You, in the back?

V.
Unzip the pants of any headliner
and find a pink balloon animal. Find
a plastic chicken. Find emotionally
immature parents. Look up and find
your own face, bruised with rainbow greasepaint.

VI.
I used to be a piece of ass, Eve Babitz wrote
on a sign she hung on the door
of her Formosa Street apartment.
But now I’m an artist.

Well I’ve never read Slow Days, Fast Company
but I’ve seen Eve nude
in that photo, playing chess. I’ve seen her
pendulous white breasts, and I think
they’re beautiful

Sascha Cohen is a writer from Los Angeles without an MFA. Nevertheless, her poems appear widely in literary journals, and have been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize. Read more of her work at www.saschacohen.com.