Drew Krewer

Drew Krewer
Drew Krewer

Boy Snow White.

Snow and blood, engineered beauty. The beautiful eye, rifled target easilyoverturned. I’ll hem for you forever; don’t spill me. I’ve seen the cageinterior, found poison like an animal. I’m resigned to ironing and being dressed by others. I can handle beinghit with an apple or two. Coffinof glass, delicate coffin, I’m delicate let’s be delicate together. Tangled inSugartown, not the glamour of a train track, not a screaming, but a fallingasleep. A prince to kick the candy from my throat. I will cook I will clean I will whistlewhile I work, so pass me my lips I have nothing to say.

BoyRapunzel.

Don’tshut your door, let’s circulate some air. We wish youwere different but it’s wrong to touch a girl. The bible tells you so, tells meno, sexy no-no. The beauty of football is all in the thighs. So revved in thenight. Orchard’s edge, motorbiked and blond. You are stolen booze, openedwindows, the hair to get us out. That was the story that kept us here, butthere are many stories. God would blind you, but he’s stuck in my house.

from Superstation Queen

Frothy-mouthedchildren with assassinated teeth populate the countryside. It might serve onewell at this juncture to examine, by tongue, the elaborate inner contours ofthe mouth. Swine understand the gravity of exsanguination and will find comfortin the familiarity of mud.

Thesupreme synchronicity, of fathers locking office or shed, summons from aninfantry of fridge the beers, cold against the hands of devoted wives, whomarinate deer meat from last week’s huntin.

Whatcruel and calculated manipulation is housed in Hon’ I’m Home.An infestation of expectations and bravado.

Ihave waited for this moment, for the fathers, the marinatin meats, the childrendesperate for a drink. Sprinklers have populated the countryside, they aretaking over, it is inevitable, love this while you can.

from Superstation Queen

Peoplehere believe in, in moonshinin one’s way to emotive jactation. You, planted ina thimble, pray tell me how one avows preeminence in the world. The world’sfinest took my likelihoods, sad-ironed me into a kerchief of a person. Youcould have had that person, but you constructed conglomerates over its body.Above the carcass, people eat chicken of engineered taste, surefiretongue-heaps. Best chicken in the world. The populace finger-lickin, cluckingover the ceremony, in this town that is the capital of turfgrass and reading,where the libraries shall flourish in abandoned places. Empty greetings repeat,become rhetorical and numbing. We are gathered here today to establish ourmagnolia as the tallest in the world, gathering chicken in the gullet-purse,you know we’re paying. You’re tearing a breast apart for the last time, therestaurant an aquarium of grease, minimum wagers moaning over their battered,deep-fried skin, fat flooding the streets. Tornado, little darklin, cross the asphalt river lined in billboard, empty out yourspinning little heart until you’re just a threat and a headline. Dying here wouldbe fortunate. All it took was lightning and a tree. Watch them suffer with asudden knowledge of the world.