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Amber Tamblyn

AUBREY MAY

 

 

I wake to the throbbing

sounds of Ibiza on the television.

 

I see beautiful bikinis eating bananas

in bikinis eating the asses

of other beautiful bikinis. 

 

A girly grind of tanned tibias,

bronzed bombs ticking twenty-four

karat beach backdrops.

 

Seems like everyone’s having paradise for lunch but me.

I am no glowing globe of shaken gold.

No leggy Cindy. Kardashian’t.

 

I am the crutch apparatus of an amputee.

The falsest identity. The girl next door

to the girl next door.

 

I’d like to dice up my eyes,

form a search party.

 

We interrupt this program for breaking news:

Has anyone seen this nobody?

 

-

 

BRIDGETTE ANDERSEN

 

 

A child-star actress is a double-edged dildo.

(Insert a metaphor about getting fucked here.)

 

No one should have to look back to see

the bright future ahead of them. The future holds

 

then pushes you away.

I’m gonna tie those pamphlets for cures

around this needle

and wave the white flag.

 

I just want to lean into the duct tape

this vial is holding up to my mouth.

Cut creativity’s circulation off.

Get some rubber nooses together and gang-bang my arm.

 

Growth has outgrown me.

I’d rather not be a word

associated with weeds and dicks.

 

I’d rather spend all that future brightness

looking up La Brea’s sparkling skirt at dawn.

 

Hitchhiking up that boulevard’s famous slit,

catching a ride with some opiates and trading spit.

 

I’ve heard Junk is starring in Scorsese’s next movie.

This syringe knows people.

 

Forget my mother and father in all this.

They are a language that died on an ancient tongue.

 

I’m going to floss my teeth with the pubic hair

of the Hollywood night air,

memorize my lines before I snort them.

 

I want to know what it feels like

to die in the arms of missing limbs.

 

To end an act in my own skin,

covered in someone else’s skeleton.

 

To get on my knees and crawl

on all fours into character.

To fade to black,

then fade through that.

 

-

 

SHANNON MICHELLE WILSEY

 

A POEM FOR BRIDGETTE ANDERSEN

By Savannah

 

 

They call me “Silver Kane”

spelled with a K or with a C,

or sometimes its just “Silver” plain,

I don’t care long as they’re calling me. 

 

But I am Savannah mostly to this world

and I gave myself that name after you. 

And like your character I am a runaway girl,

giving in to men who want to protect me too.  

 

I know just how it feels

to want nothing more than to be loved.

What we have in common gives us our appeal-

the fact that we never got enough.

 

They say it looked like a big flower had sprung

in the place where I shot myself dead,

just like those ribbon pigtails clung

onto either side of your head. 

 

 

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