More of a reading, but this was a truly wonderful event and big ups to all the poets and Tahj for putting on the event. Snaps all around.
The day prior to Christmas Eve,
He had one of his fits. Norwegian stubbornness
Had made him contumacious, the variety of which
I hope to one day obtain, He asked
For help to his own bed.
Countless grey entities enjoy dragging liquid flesh across my chest at random intervals in my life – I decided to be like Samson and never again cut my hair – Christmas Past and Present keep trying to tear me apart while Christmas Future offers me mangos and sex on the beach – I will look like a lion if I’m not careful – of my ghostly tormentors, the worst are the foxes – The beard is always the first to run the crucible, the awkward stages drawing in the razor’s edge – The biggest challenge was getting all those Philistines into my bathroom to watch the act – The bottle of wine helped guide Delilah’s hand along my ass of a mandible – The ghosts offer me honey and aftershave for this most excellent feat.
I cried into the petals of a flower
On the bank of Echo’s lake.
The debris of my tower,
sundered by sour drake,
line my burial mound
and, how I long to lay down.
Please select the serpent you crowned
Gurgled the jester’s nervous breakdown
So I grabbed the incarnadine blade
Of the patron saint of drunk vomit,
A True renegade aimed for the stockade
Where children sing of the burning sodomite
And I began the trek to dragon’s lair
Curious about winning a intellectual post-mortem Croix de Guerre
Apricot n’ copper sea glass lampshade
with enough light to hint at the mellow buzz
Left by the barrels of red wine, the
Wood wrung onto a group of Maenad’s
Dark hair, the men getting drunk off the aroma.
The Many Child
I read of Neruda’s woman in a rainstorm
To hide my tears of sorrow and joy
In the soaked folds of frumpy clothes,
I tattooed Yeats and Joyce in a re-appropriated
Celtic cross on my underused forearms,
I fell asleep to the lectures of David
And found the footnotes online,
It was the incestual bleating of banjos and the girls with daddy’s disappointment on their breath that brought me to this town – I wish I was born after pop-punk so my pseudo-sadomasochism meant something – do I self-deprecate myself? I self-deprecate myself – wanting to be useful, I made myself into a hammer and hid amongst the rust at the back of the shed – with a river for a cock I freeze each winter and let Spring’s breasts tame me into a child again – my kind are rotting, after years of salt water and blood – I only drink to wash out the taste of Pompeii – while the cool kids learned how to make it I just begged for forgiveness – something about jazz makes me wish I could just scream about how cold I am – If I died tonight my death rattle would sound like train cars locking, a yawp to blow the house down – The wind of my eyes sets fire to all the pine beetles, whose sour pincers have embedded in my tattoos – All burnt up, I stumbled into a community garden and spread myself over your mother’s artichokes –
This one’s for you, you spat out brat,
The result of Big Bank’s lovers feud with pop culture
Oh, misguided child of the ivy leagues,
Post-modern hyper-capitalist cool cat,
This one’s for you.
Desert-charred quadriplegic dies
His final word mingling with Italian skies,
Crawling under trim fingernails.
A painted lady annoys
The ecstasy of the woodland festival,
Twirling hoops of fire around the
Pagan’s phallic ivory tower,
Whooping ancient cries, begging for smoggy rain
Begging for a rash.