Misti Rainwater-Lites was born in Texas in 1973. She had to leave the state because her socks don't match and her hair is a mess. Misti writes a lot of poems and blogs and the occasional short story and novel. She also takes photographs and makes collages out of old magazines. Misti's poems have been published in various online and print zines such as Zygote in my Coffee, LitVision, Cherry Bleeds, Triptych Haiku, Haggard & Halloo, Poesy, remark and Nerve House. Misti is happily married to Michael, who helps her put together her print pornographic poetry zine Instant Pussy. To visit Misti's blog click here

CHRISTOPHER ROBIN

‘You're a Big Girl Now’ by Bob Dylan

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‘Andy's Chest’ by Lou Reed

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‘My Man’ by Billie Holiday

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‘Killer Queen’ by Queen

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‘Rich’ by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs

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SELECTED POETRY

by
Misti Rainwater-Lites

DON'T BE JEALOUS HONEY, HE'S JUST AN ACTOR

watching "wild orchid" with my husband
i cream over mickey rourke
my husband leaves the room in disgust
mickey rourke is the same kind of man
as my husband
a rugged renegade
with dark hair and eyes
friends with the hell's angels
he rides motorcycles
smokes cigarettes
refuses to lick hollywood's bleached asshole
like tom snooze and brad pitiful
pretty boys never did much for me
mickey rourke looks like the kind of man
who knows how to eat pussy
and then walk away
his balls intact
like my husband
whom i have just
pissed off

© Misti Rainwater-Lites

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LOCKED OUT

can't get inside your poem
can't fuck your poem
can't eat fried chicken
and drink cold beer
inside your poem
can't piss or shit inside your poem
can't be alive
inside your poem
locked out of your poem
wondering what in the fuck of all fuck
is the fucking
point

© Misti Rainwater-Lites

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PRIMARY FUNCTION OF BAD POETRY

play in your little sandbox
write your little pale bloodless poems
you're a polite, pretty white boy
who plays well with others
in your safe and neatly labelled world
the primary function of poetry
is to state without irony
Look at me, world.
I'm nice.
I'm successful.
I know big words.
You cannot write poems
as smart as mine.
You can only read them
and writhe in cross-eyed envy.

© Misti Rainwater-Lites

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AN HONEST TO GOD WHORE

it was the sunday morning following
my saturday night insanity
going to a bar in a short dress
and red lipstick
my hair still short from the army
and badly bleached from black to yellow
being picked up by a tall divorce skinny man
who bought me drinks
flattered me
took me to his house
where we shared a joint
then fucked for hours
on the futon
i said no at first
because it hurt like hell
he kept going
eventually i liked it
it was the horrible i'd
looked for all my life
it was the sunday morning following
the saturday night lacklustre loss
of my virginity
and i was hungover and ashamed
but glad
in my single bed
and my mother hated me
for not getting out of bed
and going to church
and asking jesus
to make it better
she told me what a whore i was
i believed her
i bit my tongue
i did not say what i felt
which was
Well, We're All Whores In Our Own Way
Aren't We, Mother?
Some Of Us Are Just More
Honest
About It

© Misti Rainwater-Lites

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MY CUNT BELONGS IN ALASKA

the snow is like my cunt- can't melt quickly
enough for my husband's satisfaction
my cunt is warm enough and slippery
but the orgasms are more elusive
than the real santa claus and his reindeer
i miss the days when my husband's licking
made me cum in fifteen minutes or less
now he leaves the bed cursing in disgust
leaving me alone with my frozen brain
and the sad refrain. "what is wrong with me?"
the ice skaters in my head are clumsy
yet persistent- they skate, they fall, they rise
i hate the snow and the ice but i dream
of alaska, where maybe i'd belong

© Misti Rainwater-Lites

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LIONS & TIGERS & A FUCKER NAMED JOE PACHINKO

he's the most brilliant motherfucker i know
i cannot match his effortless wit
and from the gut observations
so when we talk on the phone
i put on my kim wu act
a no bullshit chinese chick
with a short fuse
and a limited vocabulary
i feel better about myself
when i make joe pachinko laugh
so when our mutual friend christopher robin
tells me that joe is sick from drinking too much
hard stuff and working in a freezing warehouse
i leave a message on joe's machine
telling him he has two options
he can come to albuquerque and dry out
or i can hop a bus to oakland
and be his sober buddy
i imagine myself snow white to his grumpy drunken dwarf
cleaning his studio apartment
baking him chef boyardee pizza and brownies
basically affirming life
for one of the few people
who is capable of making me feel joy
in the midst of much despair
but joe calls back and says he's fine
and doesn't need
any sober friends

© Misti Rainwater-Lites