If you don’t like poetry… Wednesday, Mar 25 2009 

If you don’t like poetry, then don’t read this blog.  Some people write poetry for people who don’t like poetry, and trick those people into thinking that they like poetry.  I am neither that talented, nor that motivated.

If you like something I write, let me know!  If you hate something I write, let me know!

Enjoy! (or don’t, you know, whatever)



Baby Names Sunday, Sep 4 2011 

Let’s milk names along gumlines
Take the bit, feel the reins stretch
like destiny came calling from a bargain bin paperback.

From the altars your prayers look more like my sacrifice.
daily incantations washing through ears;
they ring of a hangman’s consolation.
They should have called me Collateral
They should have called me Carnage

We move like breaking wheels
spitting molars.
We whistle with music boxes turning thumbscrews.

It’s the perpetual motion of a noose,
the twine that lipsyncs with a mother’s hiss
that drives us to the warmth,
to the ovens; the gentle rowing of the spit.

Let’s crack bone and set them broken
while we watch men come before they stop kicking
like death is better than fucking.
We know that’s how mandrakes are made.
We know that’s how mothers are made.
They should have called me Damaged
They should have called me Baby
They should have called me Salt with wounds in it

Consistency Monday, Apr 25 2011 

Femininity is the warm paraffin smoothed on stubbled legs
like the breathe of a psycho before the knife.
Handfuls of cotton strips primed out like cursed mummy rolls
I bid adieu to unloved hair, and the layer of skin holding my fake tan.
Returning monthly to the sighs and shrieks taking turns to lull me into the certainty
of knowing that the only sure things in life
are death and waxes.

You are a crackhead. I love you. Friday, Sep 3 2010 

You are a crackhead. I love you.

Sometimes notes come careening off your tongue
before the composer is born.
This isn’t a problem until you
ask me to play them back,
but in a time signature of 5/7
instead of 3/4 on an instrument
that should have seeded in my vocal chords before puberty
but never advanced past I-IV-V-I
in G major on a used recorder;

I can barely lift my fingers from the stops long enough
to squeak out an apology,
which you ask me to repeat
while you,
close your eyes
and hum and murmur,
“what a beautiful sad sad song”

Laura Elise Lacanette 8/22/10

Nerd! Nerd! Nerd! Wednesday, Aug 18 2010 

Gamer Girls

Dear Nintendo,
I’ve noticed that this new game console you’re targeting toward women, children, and their families, is based on the premise of giving players a phallic-like controller to wave and jab around, and calling it “The Wii.”
You have even created some attachments for this sleek new button covered phallice including but not limited to a steering wheel, fishing rod, bowling ball, and sauté pan, but I do wish you’d just cut to the chase already and make it a strap-on.

Gamer Girls don’t want to play with cooking utensils and tennis rackets,
we want duel magnums and chainsaws.
We want to siege castles from the backs of dinosaurs shooting at bigger dinosaurs
Slaughter zombie nazi robot legions
Steal cars with the press of a triangle button and
pick up a hooker instead of being treated like one
We want to spill blood with our thumbs where we can’t with our fists
Screaming war cries of “head shot” “finish him” “good game nube!” “Leeroy!”

Gamer girls want to clean the showers and do the dishes
but only in The Sims
Where all 5 of our clones will also be cleaning the showers and doing the dishes
while watching a replica of that cheating ex bastard squirm in a door-less room full of clown paintings and garden gnomes on fire
(this has no relation to my psychological well being)

Gamer girls want Battle Toads 2 to finally be released
Gamer girls know that all your base are belong to us
Gamer girls play dirty
running around Golden Eye 64 whining “I can’t find a gun! don’t shoot!”
while stashing remote mines in every regeneration point and waiting for the perfect moment
to show you who’s the true boss of tactical warfare
Because tactical espionage action based games are the equivalent of playing pong
and ducking whenever the ball comes toward you.

We don’t want to be dressed as old geezers in cameo
Gamer girls aren’t offended by scantily clad gladiators.
If I was in a post apocalyptic alien invasion zone and someone was stupid enough to hand me a grenade launcher, I’d be wearing a skanky chainmail bikini too. And I’d still pwn, and
I’d do it in 4 inch heels.

I’ve seen too many casualties
Too many women chastised for flipping buttons instead of fashion magazines
Too many armies abandoned, too many cheeks blushing with embarrassment instead of pride.
I’ve got thumbs of steel baby, and if you’ve got a problem with that
you will be losing a great soldier
puzzle smasher, team mate, a great woman.
I’m gonna dance dance my way to revolution
And don’t tell me I’m going soft because I’m seeing patterns in those shiny colored gems
If you’d been grinding for six hours from the last save point only to be foiled by the red rings of microsoftial doom,
you’d be bejeweling too.

Laura Lacanette August 2010

Naturally Necrotic Sunday, Jun 13 2010 

There’s nothing wrong with my legs.
Their health is a constant reminder of my ability
to walk away.
My teeth are not chipped, my skin is not chapped
All extremities are accounted for.

Celebrity faces hang out
on newsstands next to snicker bars.
I envy their black eyes.
No one tells them how they should have fought,
how they should have screamed louder
or dialed faster

I’m even more jealous of the ones that died
It’s easier to sleep at roadside crosses
Waiting for dwindling anniversary lilies
than waiting for a verdict
1 month, 2 months, a year, a year, a year
When desert shrubs start tangling around your body,
They don’t leave much room for interpretation
They wear their spines on the outside
Play Russian roulette with the rainy season
The rusty mattress springs he took you on
Sing to coyotes because it’s better than
Dying of thirst.

Juries can’t convict on potentials
Noses at the edge of bleeding
Knuckles suspended an inch from cheekbones.

I should have worn a blouse that was easier to tear.
kept the kitchen knives closer to the bedroom
removed a few ribs for easier access to vital organs
rend clothing in a preemptive mourning
and counted buttons popping off like sheep
I should have left my drink unattended

I’m going to tell them I lied.
I’ll tell them I made it all up, there was no guy
there was no coffee, I wasn’t even there
I was too busy whispering in my own ear:
“This isn’t happening, this isn’t real,
don’t move, don’t speak,
don’t open your eyes”

I’m going to tell them it was an accident
I’m just naturally necrotic
I keep chopping of bits of myself so the rest can live
Finger paint with veins
I’ve learned it’s okay to color outside the lines.
Pry fingernails from their beds
and wish on every eyelash I pluck out.
I strike matches with my teeth,
and use them to light the coals I walk on
Hover hands over stovetops
But my lungs still protest
Noose-craving necklines
Like my jaw refuses fellatio
Of gun barrels
I’m not ready to swallow 22 caliber cum
I’ll make a cage of wire coathangers
And throw my body down stairs
Trying to abort myself in my 87th trimester
I’ve got no time for a clinic
I need to do this right the first time
Because if I don’t die before they bring out the thumbscrews,

I’m going to tell them everything I know

Laura L – 6/13/2010

When Poets Die on Facebook Friday, Jun 4 2010 

When Poets Die on Facebook

I think your poetry is packed
away somewhere under old math homework
and creating little rhyming equations in iambic pentameter
most of which are,
of course,

The only thing I found written in your hand
was an email address you said I could send poetry to

I found this very fitting
since I learned of your untimely death via
a Facebook update.

No one knew your password.
We assumed it had something to do with a pet
or an inside joke
The page was left untouched
just like your mother left your room.
It’s a bit messy, really,
and there are way too many notifications
to wade through by now:
missing you’s
and reminders of how old you should be today

but you should know:
Your privacy settings need updating.
Your relationship status is complicated.
We consider your final words to be

“going out to the river for a bit.

Self Meditation, Medicated Higher State Sunday, Dec 20 2009 

We spend our lives breaking ourselves.
Cut the cord, clip the foreskin, needle
ink, drink, smoke, poison livers to reduce the stress
of break-back work, this mess of tangled lovers
tangled DNA strands all wound up until they burst out of you in
newborn perfection
and you hope,
she’ll always stay that way.

Now the doctors say it’s depression, but
I call it post partum perfection.
Still, they toss scripts at me like torn insect wings,
And I think,
This feels like a sweaty palmed third grade love note,
pharmacists reach behind my back every 30 days
to wind my key,
This feels like a fight
with a child proof cap, bitter polymers under my tongue,
the breath of a sandman I might have imagined,
but this isn’t what hope feels like.

This isn’t
a mistake
This isn’t
a false positive
White doves, birthmarks, clear sky
This isn’t a sign.

This feels like guilty pleasure,
A one night stand with a wedding ring on
This feels like the diamond,
digging into your palm
but this isn’t what hope feels like.

There must be 20 men here crazier than I.
They tell me stories of life on the outside:
meeting new people without shaking,
taking walks at night.

When I study their faces for tells they fade
into the washed walls like little white lies.
I run into the hall screaming for a nurse
but all I hear is the sound of a mop
sanitizing my footsteps as I walk
And I know that hell is hospital white.
To compare your soul to something so clean would drive any man insane.
So I try to be kind, I apologize for being so sorry so often
but if I’m met at death by a murderer clutching rosary beads,
then this isn’t what hope feels like.

This isn’t any sort of trust or luck,
This isn’t a consolation prize.
Or an electric mockingbird mix-tape
siphoning off responsibilities I still want
But my voice gets caught on the way to telling you to st
My voice gets caught on the way to telling you to
My voice gets caught on the way to telling you to stop
looking at me like that.

Maybe hope is a second chance on the third rail
or where shadows forget to fall
and we walk in step with something lighter than ourselves

Hearts stop long after the lungs stop breathing,
long after angels fall like footsteps or
acid rain

This isn’t the poison left on Juliet’s lips
This isn’t Snow White’s kiss
This isn’t the dancing slipper worn down from flirting
with disaster all night and this isn’t,


Video post: Tribute Sunday, Aug 16 2009 

Google just decided to disable my account, no idea why, so the tags and title are all messed up. Nevertheless, here is a poem about a great performer who I will miss deeply. I hope you laugh and enjoy.

Video (Finally)! of Euphemistic Friday, Aug 14 2009 

This is a video from the Team Tucson 2009 send off show of me  doing my poem “Euphemistic.”  I hope you enjoy 🙂

CD Release! This is Some Feminist Shit Tuesday, Jul 14 2009 


The Tucson 2009 Slam Team CD has been released (This is Some Feminist Shit) and is now for sale all over the world through the magic of ebay. It comes in 5 delicious new flavors and features work by our five team members, including a few poems from this blog. There are some seriously awesome group pieces and poems in a variety of topics including love, relationships, loss, zombies, religion, politics, feminist shit, and more!
Click here!
But seriously, donations are tax deductable (yay!) and most importantly, help us get to Florida to represent Tucson this August.

Thanks for your support!


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