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How Many Days Can You Live on Vicodin and Frosty?

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Poor thing, she holds him on her lap,
the godless hidden god,

causing the lips
of   those that sleep to speak.

Cold shadow of   the white
acanthus in its tiptoe dance.

Buy the truth
and sell it not.

A lion is in the streets,
there is a lion in the way.

My niece, the little siren,
taught her the slang:

mad   married   fiancée.

Dido has a quiver,
she wears a spotted lynx

skin and a belt.
My undefiled is not herself

tonight, but one thing’s forever:
I just saw the video explaining

the neighborhood applause,
a book of anthems where sirens

plunge into the gold of the initials
at that karaoke party for her

boyfriend. We cooked up
all the goodies and fauns

come through the windows.
That’s her thing.

“I like this path to darkness”
she keeps saying.

Whatever party fame's doing to her
chances for a quick trial.

Barbarella can’t touch her Goldilocks.

That dog don't bird
for she coming back or not.

Source: Poetry (November 2013)

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This poem originally appeared in the November 2013 issue of Poetry magazine

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How Many Days Can You Live on Vicodin and Frosty?

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