Three Poems | by Nate Vaccaro


wormhole to the floor, witch-lifted.
split inchoate rum & coke

pressed to throat enough
finds me glorious.

feed him my body little pieced,
washed & wrapped in gilt eye

               -liner & alka-seltzer. sweet
                twitch of pansy petals from my
                hair our mouths the only un-
                pronounced hulk in the room

glitter all down the corners
of my lips staunched
                                      & crossing
hegemony / harmony / grinding
him down into diamond powder

& thonged beneath my fishnets
6’2 & ask him to call me little winter

with her arms up to the moon

across the bed, topped him
if his skull beneath stilettos
believed i was a lonely boy

                 & another girl dribbling / into
                 the tenderishness of tilted heels

                 shreds of his skin folded / into
                 the opened moons of my mouth.





without semblance of the 90s
queer kids don’t clic their acrylics

on bejeweled flip-phone cases
their backgrounds selfies with

the faces stickered out in the solid
heat of the 00s like binary code
spoke a crude program fragile disc

glittering sharp like the scissors
your best friend cuts their bangs
but it’s diamonds
                            & the sick skin
                            of rich folk

& one too many zombie flics
on VHS your mom throws out

& one too close to love:
the way you re-rewind
that little magnet strip

            david emge just so bloody
            got it all over your hands,
            left stains well before you forget

the scissors in the bathroom
& the shreds of hair & the acid
from the cell phone battery &

   your new acrylics
   rubbing out the blood.





in the belly of the fog machine
beneath our bed, feet dangling
hung like men from death row
shoved under what we weren’t

afraid of:          the silence
emitted on the ground by
ourselves.      was intent

a dress-up game of anthony
perkins, shelley duvall,
psychic lesion of the silver
city on my spine –

was my cock encased
               in holy wood?

prayer-distilled, ed & lorraine
on either side of us, but out
of the flaccid mouth punctures
ragged dialogue. Help us

or make museums of the occult
curious as inability, blessed be
behind glass immovable
& evil      alone at the epicenter

a doll like a virgin fag is
slid toward exorcism, gawked at
when invited in.  this one

beside the bed
will stare at you forever.



Nate Vaccaro is a haunted doll apologist attending college in Rhode Island. They are currently working on their first full length book of poetry and can be found in (b)OINK Zine and forthcoming in FIVE:2:ONE Magazine. Follow them on Twitter @enjayve and on Instagram as tenderbutton.