Finalist for the 2014 Walrus Poetry Prize
Our riot grrrl group, Gretel Berserk, is on
the growl, a reunion howl hitting every swamp.
Our music is a bolt of raw silk, best suited
for dozens of couture crotchless panties.
Not convinced? You will be. Your life is all galas
and Gossip Girl. A real shabby gabfest. Get ready.
Our backstage rider includes demon tartar, tarantula
caviar and a tarot card reader with a deck full of threats.
The sting is in the riff, kiddies. No smoke machine,
just spliff after spliff until the air is an organza gown.
Correction: we don’t glow. We sweat. Enough salt
to preserve four-hundred cod for a transatlantic voyage.
Some songs are answers. Some bleed. We turn
down proposals and pee on sticks. Nothing sticks to us.
Skanks and stones. Get up here and say that shit
to our faces. Come on, we triple bitch dare you.
Thought so. We sliced off our right breasts to better aim
our crossbows. We’ll give you a demo after the show.
Girl, please! Zeus could come down
as a swan, a computer virus, a tsunami, and still
he would cower before the flounce of our thighs.
