Sometimes there is God—

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Elio Iannacci is a writer and editor by day—see his potently quotable interviews and more in Fashion—and a recovered night-terror, whose incisive, beautiful lyrical poetry suggests the strange pairing of Flannery O’Connor and Wayne Koestenbaum. We are thrilled to offer you three poems for the weekend.

Business resumes at the HOOD on Tuesday. Or tomorrow. There is a rather large rat trap by the bed.

The accompanying image is the second-to-last by Jowita Bydlowska, another holy trinity that complements Ianacci’s poems so well, while remaining its own glorious, ass-kicking work of art.

HOOD PRESENTS: THREE BY ELIO IANNACCI

                             

Bee Hive Babies

Vandella
Shirelle
Supreme
and Bluebelle
a bounty of rhinestone
soaks in with the bleach
red – lava-red – runs rapid instead
down the lily-white blended cotton sheets

nothing but heartache
with a punchy grin
a few vodka shots and aspirin
(show’s on again)

Marvelette
Ronette
Crystal
or Ikette
each young gun
gets loaded with the teach

rhythm is relieved in careful sway
kisses on teeth break harmony
part and parcels
the glitter factory

“Singing my song/
Pushing my luck”
in a sequin sarong
bound to be plucked

hey nonny nonny
we don’t mean maybe
here goes another bee hive baby
batting a lash
by pounce or pace

chick-a-boom chick—this spotlight burns!
roasting like corn cobs on the fourth of July
lashes like Cleo, they sit on a time bomb
wait for that encore to walk on by

Son of the South

 

I

 

when the streets are lined with it

how do you pronounce sensation?

in tacky dialogue from the playhouse musical?

“Sizzling Southern Nights!”

 

with Mercer songs and a fauxtown beat?

driving the tourist bus destinations

to the oldest this and largest that?

hear Cliff and his pal Mardine

sing about chicken fried freedom

 

Hell, naw

you bleached your words here honey

renovate your debris constantly

learn from those new age urchins

sew all that garbage into gold

sell a still life

talk up process

carry on about the finishing touches

 

II

in another square

a heap of cat calls

voices of half-crazed half-men

singing psalms in tandem

He fills me up/He’s all I got in this world

He’s all the man that I will ever need

 

those dogs from the city, it works on them

Yanks with brick and mortar fever

none of us rooted folk

care about outlandish jades

 

See, our mothers are too busy

keeping it up—that dignity!

dolling out sash, crown and title

sash, crown, title every October 1

at 2pm at the Marriot

biting nails over

which Gardenia contestant will do it

suicide over a question

where do you see yourself in 10 years?

 

III

 

by noon, barons of the state swoop down

speak in headlines and sermonize

spit charcoal with their dog walks

they never bat a lash
passing playgrounds next to graveyards

 

everyday- Nina Simone-sized Sunday malaise

diners serving no specials

 

IV

 

in old town:

art gallery onlookers

cotillion coordinators

professor’s wives and wealthy widowers

they hold it down

the luxury of age lives

ongoing opera house talk

conviction and decoration and conviction

these girls party with pearls on

speak achievement with their guards up

know their place here

as the CEOs of Making It Happen

putting the proper

in city proper

 

Queen Eater

 

nix the pleasantries

we know what we have here

this town is ginsu sharp

knows what a prizefighter smells like

 

no concealing here honey

she dines on her drones

eats queens at jubilee

salts this neck of the woods

with the charm of mercury

and all that fire and music

fire and music posturing?

 

oh, it is all for focus, for notice

in the lost hours she could fry up the night

stole-on-shoulder, diamond antenna

perform it out in Low Country

that one-time cotillion Deb

she is hitting hard

marking an x on every pretty life

now she’s a used-to-be

a has-been who never was

mixing sweet hell into the down town core

coating her days in never-nevers and small plots

living for the lost hours

forever going off on

the tourists and the locusts

 

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