NewPoetry

Category: Uncategorized

Crash Course in Cosmogony

Matthew Tierney

 

Weird. Friday to Sunday my
thoughts unwind in alphabetical order.
Monday on, it’s the reverse.

Black black. Blacker
than a stock ticker in October.
The totalled U-Haul, opposite lane,
deployed driver’s side airbag
like a used condom
dangled so you can size up the cum.

I keep having this dream.
My twin stabs me with a compass.
‘The circle jerk is complete,’ he seethes,
tragically misreading Nietzsche.

Brute fact: humanism will find a way
to fuck up a surprise party.

Like gold to airy thinness beat,
John Doe is done.
Collision was fatal, says CP24.
This week’s unofficial Wheel of Fortune:
BACON BEAR COTTAGE FOREST PINE PUCK.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Perfect

Dina Del Bucchia

 

She is perfect. Reflexes like a cheetah when you call or ask or don’t say anything. She favourites all your less than stellar tweets. She watches sports with a quiet reverence and only speaks about the game when she has something truly great to say, or to agree with you or when spoken to. She eats hot dogs and hamburgers, dozens of them, thousands of them, and gains no weight, no she loses weight, no she floats away like a kite you thought was really cool in 1992. She is making progress on dinner and also she makes beer fly out of her vagina and then with sex magic it’s lubed up for you to fuck her. She is perfect. She is funny, talks about farts, but doesn’t fart like a real person, perfumed air drifts out on a blue cloud, not a pink cloud because you hate pink and she is perfect.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Replay Review

Jeff Latosik

 

It was a new challenge about the place
one thing ended and another began.
In the stands we watched and then
rained tall cans down from the blue
as if forever was just a vendor.

It was about a line in the sand
somebody had up and called blue ribbon.
A supposed given that was more a command
so there was a tribunal and then a long deliberation.
There was a common conclusion once.

Then a bunch of crummy pamphlets.
It was a beaut in one kind of way.
A territorial dispute of whether the fence-post
was foul or fair in a deafening boo.
It was everything peer-reviewed

up in the air set to blaring country
music and each citizen elbow deep
in their data plan and their to-dos.
It was waiting. It was hard.
It was discovering that our camera-flipped

phones when turned to each other
created a kind of infinity mirror
making the whole scene more fun house
than a place you’d ever want to keep score
of anything true. It was a hunch that reality,

never more tricky, kept moving quietly
in and out of view as if on one of those terrible
hot dog carousels. It was being so lost
in the inside baseball and the legalese
we couldn’t tell the storms from the breeze

and couldn’t freeze the bobbleheads
some other team, and then our team,
were becoming. Man, it was really bumming
me out. I was in the nosebleeds
wondering if I might just up and blow away.

I was watching all of us hovering there.
It was all hovering. A kind of slow flash
and it moved like knees do when the jury,
the crew chief, the judge, the worry of doctors
and the sea of committees are taking their sweet time.

It was arguing about that initial challenge
or at what point the call had been made.
No tape on that, though. All the times
I gave up on the last one I came back less afraid.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tangmere in the Night

Andrew Neilson

 

He showed me then the seafood in his fridge,
shelled and unshelled, all the slices and slabs,
the fretwork, bagged in cellophane, which
he boasted was eked from Iberian crab.
I watched as he took to the kitchen sink
something filleted, scaled and slickened pink.

This was her father—the girl I was with—
bearded, still thick with his Porto accent,
a man transplanted, given where they lived,
in a concrete block, on a council rent;
here, in the Broadwater Farm Estate,
where ‘60s Brutalism waxes late.

We were far from young love, but friends of a friend—
me and the girl, not her widowed father—
and life was still stuck in the shallow end:
being cold, as I was, under the collar
and new to more than this callous city
where I’d pitched up, searching for truth and beauty.

Of which I knew nothing. Nothing I’d read
readied me for that keyless afternoon
we sat on the landing, waiting for her dad
to wheeze up the stairwell and let us in.
Days after, I saw the splay of her hand
an inch from mine, as if printed on sand.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A PRAYER: TO LESBIA

Nathaniel G. Moore

 

I remember now, instances ago

near the fabulous false decorative tree,

as she shredded the buttered toast

in a fit against her soft lips,

and when closed, these lips formed

a temporary pink rose

and her nipples slept well

under incandescent gown,

which by now phantoms

on a floor somewhere,

beneath all my derangement.

The outlaw garment, once removed,

revealed a suggestive corporeal estate

as if she was preparing to feed

in a maternal role pantomiming

a dirty balance of sustenance and eros

now my inadequacy rises

now my duress circulates

and the potion of hope vanishes

the vanity of defeat and predictive flaws

self-propel: I am the designer,

but cannot feel the plan

for all I feel is love.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Polite Uncertainty

Canisia Lubrin

 

for Bianca Spence

 

Let me see you
leave with your
posture of stones.
Or pray, if you must, to your lit
from both ends artillery
where the world is reduced
to the height of your nose.
Best yet: is grazed on the boundary of your toes.
Your local memory, your pause, cannot suddenly sag my syllables,
or whatever you trip upon outside
myself being invaded–but no–
who reduced you to the work
of a tilted head, and respite, pardon my flare, stretching the lips, polite?

But uncertain as what borrows now, as always, the dread mock of beauty fusing mindlessly, the morse-code to the hieroglyph, the telegraph to the Braille, the dying serif to the pixelated phrase,
throw the uproar the swallowed whole, the history as font.

Tell me how to be funny. Tell me how I haven’t tried.
Lend me your gaze.
Let me sign, stupidly, your name:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Aporia (in the feminine mode)

Lisa Young Kutsukake

 

Finally, something humiliating.
Below the cut steel stare of fluorescents
Lit in the commotion of the present:
I am a cobweb that caught an aging
Fingernail in the dining room cupboard,
Bland paint chip fallen off the bed’s frail leg,
Iron-stained panty clung to a clothes peg.
Neglect—to disavow, turn from, abhor.

Stubbornly posed before men’s scrutiny,
Our palimpsest-inked pages glow, one makes
Another. “Tabula rasa. The lot.”
Words fail to write actions; shrewd entropy
Blots Reason, favours twittering Rapture—
Who claims to say who is real and who’s not?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Black Hole

Gregory Betts

 

From nothing, a bird watches a man walk into a room. From nothing, a woman is telling a story. There is a murder. She stops speaking. He sits down. A woman walks into the room. A bird flies into the room. The bird is black. The man is black. The woman sits down. The crow is telling a story. It walks into the centre of the circle. Everybody stops talking. The wings of the woman fold behind her back. She is wearing jeans with holes that resemble black holes or night. Two crows fly out in the shape of a butterfly or a depressed penis or a man picking up a stone. Nothing is said. The man throws the stone and it kills him. The crow hovers over the body. The woman stands up and walks out of the room. Her wings unfold and she begins telling a story. Outside of the room is the room full of men and women and birds listening to her story. A woman knocks over a glass of black ink. It is now nighttime. Nobody continues to talk about the murder. Crows fly through the sky above you. They are women. Black women. They plot themselves. The man advances to inspect the hole where the crows fly into the room. He reaches his hand into the night and is bitten. The woman pushes him and together they fall. A stone flies past them, knocking two birds out of the sky. As they fall, their feathers peel from their wings. The feathers are black. You can only imagine how they float in the open space of night, beside the black hole from which they came, falling onto the stone face of Silence. The man sits down and stops talking. A woman walks into the room like a hole in a conversation. Silence breaks.

There is a wire that loops around the room. It is listening for any sign of Silence. Imperceptibly, it connects everything in the room to everything else in the room. The wire is black and casts a long shadow over everything it touches in the room, which is everything. Nothing stirs in the shadows. It might be the source of blackness. It might have caused the hole, or it connects one hole to another hole. The holes are lonely, long for another moment in the perfect quiet. From nothing, the birds that perch on this dark wire tell stories to the people, each word another thread that ties them to the room. The room itself is reeling from the murder.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HIGH LINE

Stephanie Bolster

 

It was practical, the elevated rails to bring the goods right
to the factories, the freight of meat, the turkeys packed and hacked
free of their heads. A few feathers stuck. It stayed
until the last train ran and after. Birds on their way
from roof to roof sat a while and shat
a small meadow up there, seeds, blooms, cast-off
stuff. Trash some wandered under and others looked
down on and a few scaled for trysts or views
of fireworks. Seedier and seedier, best done
away with. But a couple of guys saw
it made space where space was lacking, imagined
summer backs flat against a patch of grass, up at gull-
level. Did what it took (committees, etcetera) and there
it is still, planted with much of the stuff
that set up shop itself, but done with vistas
where someone wanted: 10th Avenue a scene
through glass (an amphitheatre to sit and watch
the traffic pass) or a wall of coloured glass
against which dancers dance or a stall sells
lattes and biscotti. At the end, it ends. There used to be more
but the eyesore side said no so that part had to go. Who says
they can’t go back, ship in bits of defunct track
(who takes Amtrak?) and set them up and roll out lawn. Imagine
all Manhattan bound by that ribbon? In a century or two
it’ll have gone the way of whatever else, the ostrich
say or cell phones, the hotel that straddled it parting
its legs over a void where rusted metal was. The decent scrap
long since turned to toys or parts of houses propped by brick
walls of what were factories. The Hudson still at it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Back of His License

George Murray

 

I woke up sweating in the new
year’s darkness, worried
about Trump’s organs.
I realize it’s unlikely he signed
his card, but if he did,
perhaps accidentally
autographing on autopilot,
How impoverished would a body
have to be to not reject them?
Imagine driving around
with Trump’s liver in you,
his spleen, his kidney, his marrow,
grafts of his skin like orange
bandages over your old burns.
His tendons creaking in your legs,
his lungs sucking up air, slack
face stapled to your skull
like a Halloween mask,
a stubby-fingered hand dangling
gratefully from your stump, needing
years of physio to grab again.
How could you ever be sure
of what you see with his eyes
sending light to your brain,
or why your pulse keeps rising
with his heart bumping
against your ribs? How could you
sit at a red light, running
your fingers through that hair?
I get it, you’re desperate.
You signed on your own line
and bought the best lemon you could
afford at the time.
And if his pink Cadillac parts fit
your chugging Dodge,
who cares? So long as you get
one more chance to arrive home,
hold your kids, kiss your wife.
Maybe with his hands or open mouth.