Rachel Cole Dalamangas

RachelColeDalamangas_Web

Pornographos

psychotango for the end of reality

& the flowerpots
                      what rubs at what is

a flaw that dots the eye’s center
sentence of memory (one verse
-oh person-that-is-a-city / city-that-is-a-person

sarcastic old buildings float to and fro and to
                                                                                                                          the music

how cats and rhododendrons and computers talk to humans
means they also listen in when
a human city collapses

as for planets,

the cosmos’ commas and periods, how is the world so

irreparably fucked up
I still want beauty

by swallowing strings of
sun is how to weave lush butter gowns
to wear the appearance
of beauty
floating by to the music

jotted upon the hot ass
of a damned man
in Bosch’s garden

a damned hot garden in Bosch’s ass

I’m having a real damned good time
even if my life coincides with an era of art

which humans confuse for the grave
upon which we tango

seconds licking
rain slick
body of the night this time

this. this. this.

time this is time
 
 
 
 

untitled

what if art               rose up? for a dozen nights
I’ve dreamt underwater

what if Michaelangelo

showed up with shoes
to set the angel free from life

loveably crawling
across a dirty bathtub

a skiff cups S&M scenes as bright
as a spine
and we

commit to laugh our asses
through another theory

where and how awakens the world? zombie artists
rise from the garden
of water

then everything dies

Lamplike Universe
love-fared, punk-pierced and generous

in a bed,               in a bed
of weeds

here pours a field of flowers
a veil fleshing, how it

wars to fill a palm

dot slash dot slash
 
 
 
 

study: secrecy, female gaze, & suicide

catlike figure of a man suffers
luxuriously
in sleep, never was he
a child or was it his will
to be
in uniform or written down

the definition of him alloyed
to the bed, flesh-colored
sheets, flesh-colored and watery
glow from the lamp
of a world
revolves in the dying mind

shed from the gray skin like
blonde chrysalises
shimmied out of
by a trillion
polyphemus moths


Rachel Cole Dalamangas grew up between Denver, CO and the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee. She lives in Brooklyn and interviews artists for zingmagazine. Currently, she is working on a series of oral narratives about the Lower East Side during the 70s and 80s, as well as writing a book of short fictions based on unused audio from artist interviews. Follow her on Twitter, @rcdalamangas.

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