Madeline Augusta Turner

space cowboy ghazal or anthem or creation myth

in the first beginning, where we bled rhinestones and ate glass, the stars were pink.  
tonight, baby, we’re riding no breaks all gas so put on your worst fucking pink.  

hedonistic indulgence is our spirituality and there’s nothing left but our ash 
maimed hands, our failed plans, our flood stained pants and the color pink. 

they say there ain’t nothing like this $3 PBR, this chernobyl noir, this divine 
dive bar where destruction tastes like dirty confession. or a full blush, reality pink 

with anticipation. poseidon father. medusa mother. a Pegasus born from blood marries 
his own perfect wings, the fairytale’s happy longing scrappily stitched with pink trim 

as our fractal night shatters into now. tits out and powerful, the mystical takes 
the form of our momentum. the immortal underbelly of our winged becoming glowing pink.  

pink. the muddy in-between of purity and blood defies blossoming. they say this hot 
pink dress means she’s kinky when she steps up at the club to dance, their maggot hands  

gusseting pink. she chews bubblegum as they crawl past her shimmering hyacinth
thighs. an untamed god huddles beneath to drink. through her underwear, a corpse flower

pink flows like neon Barefoot Moscato. we call consumption what it is. lying.  
naked. beneath phosphorescent eyes, atonement takes the form of oneness.  

pink sin is a communal reconciliation or otherwise a sacrifice. all of us know this.  
their country songs can’t claw through our thongs so we write new realities in the petals 

of mortality, of love for pleasure unbending in holy juncture with sorrow. this isn’t possible 
in another world, one holy good in essence – tonight I’m ass out                     fucking, pink.

Madeline Augusta Turner's writing and work are centered around soil and hope. She is currently living and writing on a farm in central Ohio. Read more at and say hello anytime on Instagram @madelineaugusta