January 31, 2009

bones of animal tooth

i am not a machine, am
a living, breathing, dopamine fiend
pounding in frame pharaohs with sun blasted god fatigue,
based on some pain when tragedy lined street tenement,
paying minimum, clashing hard against
clavicle bone governmental,

devil run poop chute rool,
someone placed golden rule down
with reality tv,

sickened porn with locks shot off,

who are you, a tyrant ready for war,
leaves on your trees flame, candles dead,
fame built itself up pyramid,
a toilet paper entity, where suburban street curbin
kids place oversized shirts over jeans, loosely speaking,

ballerinas knick knackin your lick lackin paddy wacked silly filament mindset
placed a cowering gorilla with a bazooka future

into a villain pulled smile,
red smeared on dirty dirty white dead man's mask
someone called the joker, our realest satan sarcasm
begging for capitalism beside batman jesus.

who rang your bell and actually wanted your smile
who looked you in eyes hell hung and wanted a response
rather than yes yes my my mmmmm

sleep with your hands close to your face
for tomorrow

matthew wedlock (Taunton, MA, 1984)

January 30, 2009

shattered mirror

shattered mirror
see the faces of evil in the glass
pick up shards
cut at skin
do minor surgery to heal major illness

the stillness hangs suspended as a moment freezes
see yourself in slow motion
hurl arrows and screams at the ones you love
go mad
drag blackened tar from the pit of Hell - your soul
turn it into words like brimstone and fire
don't think, just rage on and hurl the words

but the mirror shows your slow motion jackassery
in a thousand images, replaying in a shattered chorus
of insect eye lenses
all ten thousand versions of you at once
a multiplicity of shame in shattered mirror shards

and you broke that mirror
because you saw the Devil's face staring back
he never goes away
but you tried to keep him at bay
by pretending he doesn't exist anyway

but his breath
is hot
on your shoulder

so sweep up the mirror
discard those shards before you are tempted
to slice long red ribbons into your arms
the point is not to cut the Devil out
you never can - and you never will

the point is to find another mirror
and look at yourself in truth
remain whole
watch your soul

and never let the Devil take control

nicole nicholson (Milwaukee, WI, 1976)

January 29, 2009

dragon's angel

Like a dragon spit fire
I bleed for desire
And my angel sings higher
But his voice is on wire
His notes ring higher
Circulate my hearted pyre
And my decision is dire
Do I stay or do I turn flyer
Do I tell him my heart's on pyre
Or do I cry from this lovely supplier

Like a spaceship in orbit
I rotate and form it
The plan is amazingly forfeit
Giving up my heart for his torment
His hands forming my lively poor grips
Breaking my glass walls to find my true self I wore skits
With his wings open revealing his morbid
His deadly love, killing me softly but hardly like four slits
Initials carved in my heart eternally erasing memories of whore fits

I allow him to stay within
In my skin he belongs to my kin
Making my heart fat too full to be thin
Never again will it shrink from a cold bitch's skin
Fought out of the corner and I knocked you out I win
I won, I'm the sun and the moon brighten with each spin
He is my sun and moon and replaces my hate with a new sin
Man on man is hellacious to the good book but I don't give a fuck I grin
And I want him, so I sin and my sin is sliced within my heart of tin
I'm telling anyone who has a query about me being queer which was once hidden

I'm a dragon dragging on the ground my feet
He's my angel, dragging me up to heaven on beat
The bass of my heart pounds out my love on repeat
So I bring the heat
And he brings the Antarctic sleet
Cancellation of each other but complimentary like trick and treat
So I treat him right and he treats me respectfully with each greet
He is my angel bringing me up to happiness beyond a spaceship meet
And I remain his baby, born a new since we met, he is my inspirational elite

steven walsh (Rochester, NY, 1987)

January 16, 2009

w.d. snodgrass (1926-2009)

William DeWitt Snodgrass was born in Wilkinsburg, Pennsylvania, on January 5, 1926. His first collection of poetry, Heart's Needle, was published in 1959 and received the Pulitzer Prize in 1960. Often credited as being a founding member of "confessional" poetry, he openly dismissed the term as a description of his work. Snodgrass died on Tuesday at his home in Erieville, NY, in rural Madison County. He was 83.

Further reading:

Pulitzer Prize-winning poet W.D. Snodgrass dies (AP)

W.D. Snodgrass, 83, a Poet of Intensely Autobiographical Themes, Is Dead (The New York Times)

Snodgrass at The New Yorker, The Poetry Foundation and the Academy of American Poets

Interviews at The Paris Review, Contemporary Poetry Review, The Waywiser Press and The Poetry Foundation

January 15, 2009

mystery man remembers hawaii

mystery man opens cap drops pills
the spell is ineffective
and I could use some extra cash
endorphins for the road
crossing fingers not to ever meet her again
staying far away from her shit delivering
awakened, battered, bored,
tired of myself
just waiting for the free pastries
just hoping to receive the one lucky strike
that will make mystery man put away the pills
and in exchange go surfing to Hawaii one of these days

I met a girl in Hawaii once
and she was french
it was not easy to talk to her
but I never felt happier
we became great friends, me and the french girl

mystery man opens cap drops eyelids
the smell is unobtrusive
and I could use some extra hash
some metamphetamines for the cold, long winter I'm enduring
crisscrossing the trodden path
not wanting to ever meet her again
battered, bored, and a full-time coward
so fucking tired of myself

a beast with no hope

patrick m. gordon (Seattle, WA, 1975)

January 13, 2009

migratory birds

maybe I got it all wrong
but it felt like we were migratory birds
flying in the wrong direction
heading to some forsaken destiny
unaware of the turbulence
the speed
basically lost

when you can trust instinct no more
and the bumps of the road become scars
long faces in a boat
shouting on the phone
migratory birds tasting like fish
hardened flesh and rubber hearts
what ever happened to the gorgeous plumage?

you let it go
and let it go away
for good

[stop here, coda follows]

a sudden flash of lighthouse light
there's always land at the other side
yet there was no hope for those who live
flying in the wrong direction
instincts unaccountable
moral shredded and the humor lost

and now we walk past
we just don't say hello
and rush to climb into the last car
before the door closes
my hand was trapped
you lost your limb, your youth

broken woman
three years were not enough
wounded bird
those wings are dead
you can fly no more
not even to forsaken destinies
the wrong direction

warm season is now a distant
faded dream

james berdinger (Falls City, NE, 1980)