Elizabeth Horan – FEMININE COLLECTIVE

I Know

November 21, 2022November 20, 2022 Elisabeth Horan

Using the crowbar on me — I am more tired than angry with you — endlessly waiting — I’m aware you don’t love me; the way you love the scarlet lady out your backdoor I’m shaking alone — only the veins in my forehead pulse – applaud my effort — Read more

Why do I even bother

October 27, 2021October 27, 2021 Elisabeth Horan

God, can I write anything lovely anymore The lark the thrush the yew the bush Tone it down, lighten it up Look in the mirror—throw up My hands and say: I can’t take it anymore; I’m not ok I’m not ok See, then, I’ve made you worry… see Me look Read more

La Pietá

April 3, 2021April 3, 2021 Elisabeth Horan

When I think of you It’s a special secret. I keep you In a locked drawer. I take you Out, when I need to feel you Something other than me hating Myself. I play with your hair. Your Toes. I play…this little piggie I am a mother… Insatiable. I am Read more

Not 1937 but 1972

February 21, 2019February 21, 2019 Elisabeth Horan

For Olds… for Bruck We aren’t shaped things like our moms’ hairdos So round so golden so smooth like this guy’s ego He says better not have that cheeseburger better not have that chocolate malted — And your thighs chafe like hers… so what — so, skinny is Holocaust rated. Read more

glass ceiling

January 30, 2019February 17, 2019 Elisabeth Horan

i’ve never been close to knowing how high the roof might be, before it could take my head off, until it will scalp me tomorrow evening shrunken heads go on and on laughing — can’t stop ‘em for Christ’s sake i’m obliterate here people! rolling through puke — wet linoleum, Read more

Weapons of War

January 14, 2019January 14, 2019 Elisabeth Horan

I wonder about fistulas and how a pocket of flesh is made from violence / how a coin purse of feces and urine and discharge holds the effluence of rape / who holds the run-off of soldier’s semen’s war-crimes / who holds girls’ hands’ tremors when the fingernails are gone Read more

Alcoholic Betty

December 19, 2018December 20, 2018 Elisabeth Horan

Alcoholic secretary smokes a pack a day. Hides in her car at lunch puffing shame fags alone – Hangover Betty – she is a sorry case. Too bad to deserve a pregnancy – God recognizes this type – this type with veined and reddened face. Pathetic fat Betty; at thirty Read more

Dusk falls in the night with no end

November 20, 2018November 20, 2018 Elisabeth Horan

Hours slip by ticking Out cells of my eyes One laborious, one Yogurt, wet, heavy Slides thick like thighs Waitout the drumlike Dance of blood upon The water plane, a Would be quenching If it weren’t for the fact Of saturation—one cannot Force a toilet filled red Any more wet Read more