The Jivin' Ladybug

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Alan Britt



(For Anthony Seidman)


Nickel spurs stab her bleeding waist,

the one stumbling to her knees

in freezing rain before her apartment building.


Silver bullets vibrate their lazy chambers

like southern Arizona bees

emerging from summer hives.


An antler of sensibility, perhaps

a mortally wounded verb, or an adjective

doubling as archeologist

sifting our sad lives through a screen.


Then a disturbance, an earthquake of sorts,

erupts from the floor

of your poem.


And the rest is history.



Sulfur Sunrise


Sulfur sunrise,

hybrid ladybug,

adolescent male, no doubt.


Sulfur sunrise,

wings flicking black dew

from the night before.


Sulfur sunrise,

fingerprints on file

down at headquarters.


Sulfur sunrise,

despite what the pessimists say,

sulfur sunrise

requires your naked attention,

your absinthe birthday suit,

total freedom of expression, if you will.


Sulfur sunrise

whose Rickenbacker guitar strings imitate

the clickety-clack of rickety rails

between 19th Century Boston and Philadelphia.


Sulfur sunrise,

bask at your ease.


Sulfur sunrise,

a simple slice of day-old melon, if you please.


Ah, but sulfur sunrise,

the angels of mercy won’t bother you

if you’re baptized

by sulfur sunrise.


That is, until the moon sashays

in with her granite confidence,

über starched breasts

and vagina of sobbing grenades.

The Jivin' Ladybug- A Skewered Journal of the Arts
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