PRUDENCE GENDRON

Rose Garden

I never promised you a rose garden. Promising things goes against my ethic of slowly revealing sad truths. I think of you fondly like the lemon in my pussy, and the marjoram in my pussy. I'm making a whole aromatic base in there, and you remind me of it.

New Normal

I'm lying,
motionless as medical equipment,
having a conversation with a friend I don't talk to anymore.
They don't believe in liking things
They don't like their lips in anticipation of anything anymore

Startled, I point out a series of beautiful things I see passing behind the veil of their eye:

Even I'm in there
Hello, me! I say, waving to myself

they cut me off, insisting I don't understand

I'm prompted to pull my head out of my own ass and put it into the ass of someone else's shoes for a change. It's true, some people are born with a student loan in each hand, while somewhere, someone you met at a function is pouring fracking liquid sumptuously over their zebra steak.

I turn this thought over as I walk down a street filled with flaming shopping carts, mating wildly with each other. There is an abundance of cum; the light filters through it like opal, or smoky quartz—someone out here is having the time of their life.

No one's said anything, but everyone can smell my dick on my hands.

I wash them in the communal river of soda water created as part of a social program for out-of-work clowns during the Great Depression. These days it's mostly a place teens go to escape mandatory oral sex.

An inside out fish drifts by.

I didn't sign up to cry like this.

Why is it such a lonely country?
Out West, they experience it as a lonesome country;

but the feeling of seeing a tumbleweed blow through your sense of community is universal.

Number One

Pee is the medium of intimacy my love and I have chosen; we lovingly coat the bed with it. "This stuff is liquid gold!" I say, looking down at another Picasso, itself busy cultivating microbial witnesses.

Pee is in the heart of every visitor to our home, hot pee pumping through their veins. People cry tears of pee when they see our love. Exotic Mediterranean marine life prefers our pee over the sweet milk of the ocean. We tongue kiss in pee. We fill a pool with pee. We pee down the pool's slide and the pee says "wee!" We pee from treetops onto the heads of the ruling class. The territory of our love is vast and acutely demarcated, pee being nature's label-maker. Animal Law recognizes our domain. Our pee has been sent up by NASA, tasked with suspending the immortal recordings of Chuck Berry. We donate it to sick kids wishing to see one beautiful thing before they.. immediately recover and head home. We donate our pee far and wide, and also near (note: pee). We fulfill our humanitarian project, seasonally flooding the rice fields. Everybody wants our pee.

Pee is a distillation. It is a superior conductive for all things. A lightbulb dropped into pee will immediately illuminate and cast kid-friendly shadow puppets on the nearest wall. It has the required properties to tell when the temperature is hot hot hot. It always flows towards civilization. We discovered all this and more together letting ourselves play like kids, horny dumb kids of resounding spirit; kids to the stars themselves. Eons ago we wedded, arms intertwined, raising flutes of pee to each other's expectant lips; our guests following suit. We jumped wearing matching breastless tuxedos into a great yellow basin. Pee influencers lined the digital block. Pee poured forth from our amplifiers. It refracted the sun's light, turning our world into a golden aquarium. We've seen it, transcending this world: when God opens her mouth pee pours forth. It is the lifeblood of existence. Whole continents float across its tensile surface. There are of course detractors, haters of our pee ideology, riddled with peeness envy. There are of course loser ideologies everywhere; I'm compassionate to their sexless imaginations. They don't know what it's like to wake up and fall out of the mouth of God herself, subsumed in the loving atmosphere that defines our relationship...to pee. Permanently in exquisite country, our love and manners mossless, our pee more perfect than barbecue.

When I Said I Made My Move

I round a corner in a jag through a cloud of wild panties, a thin trail of smoke coming off an impossibly long cigarette. I blow the smoke. It spells out 'Howdy.' The smoke goes on to compliment your dog. It knows the breed immediately. It knows all your internet passwords. It hires lesser smoke for skywriting for further seducing, your name appearing in arched, swirling letters, banked on either side by advertisements for gun shows. It later invites you to the gun show, marshaling the exact level of irony required to enter into your heart's pussy chamber.

I am a lesbian of unimaginable power, and my smoke works for me.

I fix your bed, and the hole in your ceiling where we looked up god's skirt. I fix the television, the heat ray, and the orgasmotron. Your house is a supple machine in my care, designed to produce stability, and ejaculate. Your house is suddenly your home, and there I am in it, robbing your furniture of all previous associations

Prudence Gendron (she/her) is a "Montreal"-based writer, transfemme white settler, sometimes-radio personality, and total softie. Her work has appeared in CV2, Antilang, The Puritan, for whom she was a 2021 Pushcart nominee, and in the dreams of several New England magistrates, for which she is being tried as a witch. When she's not touring the country on her platform of equitable cruelty, you can find her frolicking through the marijuana fields of her youth. Somewhere, there's a slice of cake with her name on it.