Carissa
by Mary Sarsfield
Born.
On a mattress of soil
Opening up to the atmosphere
Not birthed,
Bloomed.
Her eyes were still like puddles in the streets at midnight.
And there were clovers
Instead of fingernails.
I knew her before she ever breathed a word to me
And I know her the same way now
Because when she lies with her back to me
Shoulder blades casting shadows
I am reminded of a bough.
And when she bends
Pouring green tea into chipped mugs
The faint smell of evergreen floats on a breeze
In this windowless kitchen.
And the Sun Set
by mary Sarsfield
but my eyes couldn’t rest
they kept
searching for an inch of skin i hadn’t yet explored.
In fits of irrationality i disregarded all sense of me
and pursue the losing of it to you.
Now you’ve got my lungs in your grip and you won’t let go.
But gently, gently so.
Ah, i love the furious sky and its angry winds. And the
tiredness that is my day!
The weariness that stirs my senses
into vivid dreamlike dazes,
the browns and mahoganies of the bricks screaming from the wall.
I press against it with my hand, fingers spread open palm. Tips absorbing the initial contact. The cold solid bones of this structure. The cold solid bones of your being.
CONTEMPORARY POETRY, MOTHERFUCKERS
by Marina Blitshteyn
got this book of
contemporary poetry from
the English department
and after hours of sex and sleep
I skimmed.
about 5 lines of actual poetry in it.
so what’s to become of
poetic life-poems
living poetry
poetry that reminds me of
sex and sleep
not a bunch of txtwords phd kids
jerking off a list of
obscure thinkers
they cum quotes but
it sure doesn’t smell like love
I guess this means
I’m not a poet anymore
not for actually fucking
but for sounding like I do
and eating
and when necessary
shitting
you know, the basics
and what will happen
at 3 a.m.
when some kid picks up a copy
of Aviator
after hours of sex and sleep
groggy and hungry
will his life be saved?
has he made his girl cum tonight?
do these poems care?
hell the night is young enough
for all sins and indiscretions
age
has nothing to do with
sounding like a douchebag
must be the debt
of academic education
thousands of dollar signs
comma pee H dee period to
thousands of stiff-upper lips
who express to the world
something about
the act of calculation
and personal wit
I, too,
am a clever motherfucker
but if it costs me a dime
to put it in print
I’ll submit
like a clever motherfucker
and get on my knees
and blow somebody I love
nap naked in his bed
afterwards
come home to the alcoholics and druggies
poets and friends
who cough up the human condition
like an ash lung
scratch it in women’s arms
with a hypodermic pen
just tell it to me straight, buk
you knew better than anyone
going to school for poetry is like
taking a course in fucking
you probably won’t
do it right
if your hand’s on your own
cock.
