"hallowed be the whores," "songs i know," and "gap in the static"

hallowed be the whores 

to my neighbor who was offered a $20 BJ on our street during pandemic 
to my sister and craigslist and all its rabid gods who aren’t in heaven
to julia and maya and rachel and the clubs that kept them awake 
on molly and lucy and tina and the promise of parties that pay 
to the barbie doll who broke my hymen so i might feel no pain
in the valley of the shadow of first sexual encounters amen
hallowed be the whores, the sugar babies, strippers, porn stars, cam girls 
escorts, freestylers--hearts of gold, cold hustle, whom i owe by the dozen
hallowed be the word of the whore, for i believe her over anyone
hollered over too-loud new wave or whispered in the bathroom
may she drink champagne in paradise, may she indulge 
every temptation, may she deliver us from cloistered lives
at least an hour, fully compensated, as it is written, as it persists
may she devour us whole-hearted or leave only what the crows 
could snatch easily, may she break bread with angels at midnight
tint her cheeks with fresh cherries, may she rearrange the world
as she sees fit and then tell us all about it, may she forgive us our 
trespasses and then remember and laugh and then wink at the camera 
our father, whoever the fuck you are
it’s my eyelash stuck to hers, we know exactly what we’ve done



songs i know


song of loose wolves, song of hungry dollars 
song of hotboxed erotics on train tracks
song of pregnant cravings for termination
song of bluebells with their poisoned tongues out
song of staredown, song of stalking
song of oversized clothing caught in chain link 
song of jailbait braiding the constellations into tiny outfits
song of paid sex, song of abstinence, song of pressing bare tits
against my phone camera over facetime, song of long distance
song of jellyfish descending onto the beach like overcharged
transmission towers, song of the sheltered kid and song of the cynic
song of return to a watery hometown, but dylan is dead
song of the past caving in on itself, song of the not-felt-yet
song of surprise at just how much can be thrust in the throat
before the body rejects it, song of foreign airports
song of giving the 911 operator bad directions
song of brainwash, song of brimstone, song of killing a stranger
on the way home, song of lucid nightmare, of having lived long enough
head hung sick out the car window, but hey, i know this song
it played the night the world burned down—you know it?
go ahead, you sing the melody; i’ll find the third up and jump in



gap in the static 

at the end of the radio, fuzz pedal presidents found dead
i lick the whole substrate into orbit, where is your horny god now?
no one really cares, but there’s a storm coming, internet in and out
we fiddle with electronics like the word of some slumlord 
might come through any moment, with the coordinates of whatever 
missiles fixate on next: the criminal ways we’ve fed the cats
house arrests, home videos, empty coke vials decorating closets
i was stuck there once, next to the air conditioning vent
and a lot of us imagined outer space
and a lot of us went there, and a lot of us stayed



Dylan Krieger

Dylan Krieger is writing the apocalypse in real time in south Louisiana. She earned her BA in English and philosophy from the University of Notre Dame and her MFA in creative writing from LSU. She is the author of Giving Godhead (Delete, 2017), Dreamland Trash (Saint Julian, 2018), No Ledge Left to Love (Ping Pong, 2018), The Mother Wart (Vegetarian Alcoholic, 2019), Metamortuary (Nine Mile, 2020), Soft-Focus Slaughterhouse (11:11, 2021), and Hideous Compass (Underground Books, 2022). Find her at www.dylankrieger.com. Dylan recommends donating to the National Abortion Federation to preserve bodily autonomy and access to medical care for all human beings.


Edited for Unlikely by Jonathan Penton, Editor-in-Chief
Last revised on Wednesday, February 1, 2023 - 23:04