Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Thirty-four
Spring 2014
 
Manifesto
Denise Duhamel and Maureen Seaton

A girl in the band
is worth two in the mosh pit.
A girl in the hand

is a bull in a crop top.
You can lead all heresy

to war, but you can’t
make it clean a kitchen sink.
Opposites attack

analogies (period
or comma) so girls who run

with wolves, girls with curls,
and hood girls all make passes
at girls in glasses,

girls whose asses are sassy
and girls who sway like the tops

of palms. Build them, they
will come. If they build themselves,
they will come and come.

Pose is a pose is a pose
is a pose. Rhyme doesn’t pay.

All work and no play
makes a dull backlash, jackass,

wise women say.

Who, they, they, who? Those wiseass
women who play the way prose

plays, screens play, poems
play it again, Sam-I-Am.
Who doesn’t like eggs?

Tear gas is always greener
on the other bride. Don’t freeze

all your eggs in one
casket. Life is like a glass
of sherry. Only

the good foo young and the mold
never dies. (I can’t feel my

manifesto!) Girls
keep coming back to haunt my
archipelago.

Every girl has a silver
g-string. A blonde in the rough.

All is fair, Catherine
Deneuve, Dinah Shore. Follow
that Cabbage Patch doll!

Jump back, little Sheba, talk
smack and take it on the lam,

Mary Mack. Twitter
until your heart tweets a beat.
The world’s your toy store—

its modus operandi
robbing geezers for candy.

All the girl’s a stage,
and the legs merely players
of wit and trances,

kicks and stances, we will not,
I repeat, give in to your

Dakota Fanning.
The next time you see yourself
give your elf a shrug.

A chambermaid is only
as strong as her punch (mixed drink.)

There’s no place like Rome.
There’s no place like Rome, New York.
There’s no place like Cork.

To screw or not to screw: that’s
the way, uh huh uh huh, we

girlscouts like to sell
our Thin Mints, our Do-si-dos.
Thank U Berry Munch.

Better the Devil Dog you
know than the Little Debbie

you don’t. Don’t bite off
more than your ACLU.
The banned book feeds you.

The poem eats words. The girl
was barely there all along.

About Denise Duhamel and Maureen Seaton

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