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    Dangerous Liaisons: Three Poems

    By AJ Dent @@digitalaj_org · On October 20, 2015

    All Images Copyright of Artist

    STACKEDD welcomes poet AJ Dent to our pages. AJ takes an edgy liberty with prose so we paired her work with the images of French street artist come art world darling, Miss Van, as they are both artists working in with strong ideas regarding sexually, fun and women in control. -MDL

     

    Twinkles11bd

    Twinkles

    Liaison

    Afterwards, off into the night he rides, booze and tattoos,

    smokes and chokes ringing my throat,

    out through the window into the 3am air, smelling

    of cold sweat and bike tires and my period,

    having wrung his socks of the rain

    on my hardwood floor, staining my sheets

    for the fifth time, dishes in the sink bulleted with burrito beans,

    fan turning its head around like an owl, never looking directly

    at us, side-eyeing the blow jobs, blowing our breath back

    onto us, beating on the window panes, mixing

    this exhalation of bodies with the breeze,

    back into the night, into summer’s mouth.

     

    It’s all forbidden, poorly hidden, smitten,

    feels like we’re dumpster-diving atop a skyscraper  

    and finding hot springs, excreting sheets of steam

    like heated city gutters gargling, pigeons flying into cars,

    rats at the wheel, garbage bins drooling

    with pizza boxes, hearing voices on the next street

    close in, we are filling each other’s faces

    and muffling our own screams.

    tall

    ‘Gorditas de Chicharrón’

    Gag Gift

    When I saw the Victoria’s Secret bag

    on Valentine’s Day, I almost giggled

    at what was surely a gag. Perhaps perfume?

    But I pulled a bra out of the pink tissue paper

    by one strap as if a dead rat by the tail. Each cup

    had to be at least two inches thick and here

    we were, having dated for three years. Three years.

     

    Purple lace overlay on smooth black foam

    that would’ve been put to better use as

    kneepads for my rollerblade trips. Three years

    of his head on my chest as we slept, of us

    in swimsuits from Minnesota to Mexico.

    I had to try it on right away, he said, mouth shiny.

    Clearly fake cleavage that made it hard to breathe

    occurred. I can’t remember his compliments

    but he was pleased with himself.

     

    He knew that once the bra was unhitched,

    my boobs would go back to their nonchalant ways,

    right? Yet he thought I could wear it with anything,

    long as he was around — simple cotton tees

    and humble sundresses suddenly looking

    stylized for Jessica Rabbit.

     

    But god forbid the men’s button-ups I favored.

    Come the start of winter, he’d begun

    shuddering at my unshaved legs, calling my outfits

    “homeless” while on my body.

    The first time we’d ever met we’d laughed together

    at the matching holes in the knees of our jeans, but

    he no longer found such outfits fun.

    Somehow three years later his skin was new,

    a steampressed Express shirt tight around his biceps

    making my peasant-skirt face look even older, as if

    crumpled up from being dropped off a footbridge.

     

    Two months later I moved to the west coast,

    a couple $10 bras from Target in my suitcase. One

    teal, one tan. When I wear them, it’s to help keep

    my tits warm behind their mere centimeters.

    I’m OK with not flying the same way

    as a Victoria’s Secret Angel

    when me and my boyish body

    can pull off Peter Pan.

     

     

    MissVan1

    Untitled

    Candied

    at first i was logical and figured the bar’s servers give a little lollipop

    to everyone with their bill as a free mini dessert, but

    then the Manny’s i’d had with my jalapeño burger started talking like

    maybe this was a sweet wink, an invitation to ask her out to a show,

    to twirl her teal locks and place my hand over the Iron Lung logo

    on the back of her jean jacket, to pass the watermelon Dum Dum

    back and forth until our tongues taste the same, to go shopping for glasses

    together and set their cases side by side on our nightstand

    to make them spoon like us, but really then again if she felt anything at all

    it was probably just sympathy for me, munching and sipping alone

    in the corner booth on a drizzled-out Tuesday evening and plus how egocentric,

    egotistical even, id-driven completely, really, to think someone being paid to be nice

    was smiling for any other reason than that paycheck or the miraculously

    retained softness of their own soul or the possibility they got laid

    that morning, and besides it’s borderline harassment to ask someone out

    while they’re working, what a terrible position to put them in,

    the opposite of the gesture at hand, the translucentesque dollop of sugar

    on a stick wrapped in colorful wax paper almost akin to how i am right now,

    curled beneath a fort i made for my cat and me, a comfy cave of wonders

    i’d love to have given her in response to my candy surprise, but

    better to tip big instead and allow her to continue to live

    without ever having to learn i am the biggest sucker of all.

    Miss VanSeattle's Best Poetry
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    AJ Dent

    AJ Dent is a freelance writer and photographer based in Seattle, WA. Her work focuses on the importance of feminism, civil rights, artistic communities, and really bad puns.

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