1st Place: Polly Pocket

Excuse me, I'm not trying to prove a point peddle disaster make you
   like me (more)
my diet is called polly pocket I kill kockroaches
flatten them under my palm like play-doh

my life line is made of razor wire it will cut you
                                                                         to ribbons
my senses tell me you like me
more or less

my piety is absolute > I need to be more obtuse
it's so intense
she laughs and it sounds like pee falling out of the toilet bowl
in reverse

what about a simple life
or an ample one
unconventional things
you start to think
but where does that get you

excuse me for being momentarily
that was then I go what are you doing
she was like, I am staving off the flu
with small lines of cocaine and Catholic weddings
I just survived
do you love me
does the Pope shit in the woods
I'm going out : this is now
excuse me for being dumped or drunk it's a lonely town
heartless wretched like you so much
hope in her up up up friends finish first!

vacancies

I said to the day, maybe without sides a rooftop would be marriageable
god except o, god an outhouse weehouse anywhere is great
rental coffins on the beach Shelley's shell collection trumping only
his heart in a jar on my desk dead colonials fertilizing our vacations
without permission (as usual) spider cocoons in their fair hair
under white sand, dumb surfers bringing obsolete casseroles to
my retirement party, aspic and sickenings galore whoa, dude

that was GOD in a gold BMW caught in a web in the loo
I undo my stays and bellow 'til dust motes apologize for intrusion
dispersing – so wait – anywhere is great? For your burial, yes!
beach house your family's estate...

Lo, my dog's name is Boatswain he's no rogue
he'll never die he's too salty Lord Clubfoot named him –
now there's another party crasher! These guys!
They never had Florida like we do we'll get there
parachuting in on our petticoats our metacoats like D-day
ripping silks and brocade beached aviators gasping for air

surf's up I say, and...
I'm broke in tatters always braying about the poorhouse
sorry bambino, it's so boring

a rooftop is marriageable but the sea the sea will obliterate you
the sea will restore you yo vacation is now if you want it
Chuy is a cat-dog let's take him to the beach, let him dig up old
Shelley-bones and not listen to politics on the radio
whatever Agnes said about it being a negation of life
the divide and own concept she was right about joy
even if she was against having pets even pedigrees
“No Basket(s) for her,” decrees Gertrude, gazing
at a paragraphic stag in the flower alcove
littered with feathers fur and glitter
sand from pulverized stars
beneath our sleeping bodies
(to be continued...)

CHARITY COLEMAN is the author of Julyiary, a medieval contemporary breviary, and the work in progress, Sleepless Nights Revisited. Her writing can be found in BOMB, Joan's Digest, UbuWeb, No, Dear, and the archives of Write This Down TV. She is a curator of the Segue Reading Series.