Lindsey Boldt

Girls. Girls. Girls.

after Henry J. Darger


Flipping skirts at big men brings the storm

guts the stomach you call tummy.

Girls. Girls. Girls.

Lumpy crotches bereft of hair

fucked-off

lawns roll and bring the rain on

sliding tiny hands down tiny waists

Rip my hair off in strips

flowers tower, shout bright colors

eyebrows angle, threaten violence

a battle ensues

[I'm ill-prepared for this.]

Clouds curdle

stacked curves, blurbing hurts

at pains--the wicked army approaches

wearing epaulets, hacking into pastels

reaching into the soft spots

between phrenelogical distinctions

[If I trusted you would you spit on me?]

Danger. Danger. Danger.

A bare tushy wants broadly smacking

but don't it just?

Sign your name in this book

adding value to value

an empire rises within an empire

affects nothing but butterfly wings

little mouths swallow a lot, swords even

that scythe goes along way

towards trimming bangs in a nice rim job

Letch. Letch. Letch.

Grow the flowers high.



Lindsey Boldt sits in a hotel in Utah with a broken down car in the parking lot, drinking beer from a styrofoam cup; she's sunburnt on her shoulders, her eyes are red from the sun. It's great to be young.

She usually lives in San Francisco. You can find her work at shampoopoetry.com, Vanitas and Peaches and Bats or check out her blogs www.ridiculoushuman@blogspot.com and spdadventures.blogspot.com