POEM FOR GETTING A ROOT CANAL
less sugar, more water. some twine for tusks, half-numb.
this anaesthetic aplomb, arcane. tell me: congratulations, could you.
fix a fixture a fissure a fracture, some bacteria bad. he recognizes the book
in my hand, half-numb. he has no face i have no face, half-numb. lips
wrapped around speech spoken, even if mostly through gesture. less sugar, more
suction, selling a patch of skin for more money than i can count or carry.
you a risk-taker, a ruck-breaker, a hug-bearer. you scratching where i cannot feel
the scratching. like without tether, splayed open, pins here and there. more
metal and more movement, more metal. snuck a snap of soot, pins here, half-numb.
it does not improve. i walk around the city like i have forgotten it.
i figured out how to make a little page with a paypal link so if any of y’all want a copy of this thing that can happen. if you live in toronto or whatever you can just holler.
finally got my act together and made a little chapbook of poems. i think it turned out really nicely. i just need to go to a printshop to use one of those oversized staplers.
Double Exposure
At a party of university people
Jimmy and I sat on a bed
that seemed to be floating.
The whisky-drinkers
were making identical comments,
dancing ever so slowly,
and eyeing each other.
One girl had put Christmas ornaments
on her ears,
and a long-haired kid
read poems at the walls.
I was watching Jimmy–
his hands
holding a towel
and a book of Prévert–
his bare legs
and the curve of his prick
under the cut-down jeans.
The people all looked at us,
their mouths open,
and began to fade away
just as our bed drifted out of the window
They were waving goodbye
as I took pictures of Jimmy
with an imaginary camera.
—Ian Young
(from phuckadelphia)
(Source: frshery, via cinemaissatanschurch)
POEM FOR BOSTON
nape near, pressing down
an air mattress bigger than a bed, room for two to
sleep which is what these rooms do
make me want to: take a kindergarten nap, a collective
poem of poets passed out. a throat full of cucumber, not.
a rasp, a book open, another book open, a room full of books.
touching a book in my hand and then touching your hand. see?
a theory of the body spoken by saying
body and then body again, the body. let’s keep it abstract, take
off your glasses until the time is a faint red glow, i don’t want to count it.
from this sports bar to this sports bar to this big warehouse of word
to your bed. that bed.
our bed. temporarily.
