The Poetry Addict
Take off your clothes and let the public
rub you, how false a prophet?
how phony a poet?, how lousy a man who bares
himself to the spectacle
of sheerest
a rebirth of the Retrograde
and how long have you been so empty and
how much pallor are you going to let them
is it possible to sell
your soul and not know
will you find solace in telling yourself
you were not as fake as the rest?, is that even True?,
how surprised are you to have failed yourself to
you’ve been mainlining emptiness for over 3 years,
could you’ve ever
imagined you’d reach a point
where you’d know for
certain your mantra
should really be “don’t
believe the truth
how did you ever fuck
it up this bad?!
Anti-Ode to the Crooked Police in York, PA
I spilt off the leash
as my throat toted a bottle of rancid asphyxiation
within my tonsils. I scream out informing you
I have egg yolk in my eye southstretched
imagining to create every cop’s headpop
roadclosures. Smug blue candles steeped
in sadism.
Houston, Boston, Tucson, Tahiti,
we’ve got the largest
problems ever.
Eater of applecores.
Sheen. Too American for the blue boy group
headed by the evilboned fakesmile
of Officer Criminal. Lost of shine.
Keep me outta your sins.
Officer,
you knowingly killed my dog! Foolish
me to ever trust the Quo. Avaricious monkeys
are slaves but too dumb to know it.
No ideas will not be entertained or tolerated
on the off-chance of a proximitous mix-up.
Monopolie
the deck is stacked when the joker runs wild / the leopard
instinctively bathes her newborns and ties their shoes / suddenly stripped by
sniperslugs that fell snipt from skies bellowing / Delilah deletes her long
distance journey to spend more time with the roaches / the ultimate coincidence
is fourteen of my May Fair goldfish I’ve won have died on the exact same day
fourteen years in a row / bottlenosed dolphins and needlenosed neurotoxins /
colored plaid really don’t create anything special when mixed together other
than a mundane monochrome of autumnal essence / a pure white pirouette / time
unfurls but as if in logarithmic logotypes of the present and future being
vacuumed into the past / long lost and gone forever upon ruby hummingbird wings
/ as the suction slowly ceases / pouring us back into the present / and
reminding us that a nonspherical spirit of a monster’s tear / is quite lovely
at his time of year.
Roulette
The man
who sold
the Universe
only to fall
off the earth
was found punchdrunk
and discombobulated
in a suicidal in barn in South Dakota.
Built to Vomit Vaseline
No one
has ever
fully lived
until they
have died.
Scars and bumper-cars.
Swastika and Crucifix.
Futility and meaning.
Im-permanence.
Heath Brougher is the Editor-in-Chief of Concrete Mist Press as well as poetry editor of Into the Void, winner of the 2017 and 2018 Saboteur Awards for Best Magazine. A multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net Nominee, he received Taj Mahal Review’s 2018 Poet of the Year Award. He is the recent recipient of the 2020 Wakefield Prize for Poetry and is slowly starting to wade back into the world of focusing on his own work, with 4 books due out in the near future.
Hesth those were absolutely brilliant! ! I for one of many am
ReplyDeletesure are elated to receive this new poetry ! thanks for brutal honesty and for letting us feel what your words mean us , your a very unique writer with words one never really hears or are heard of at times but then not all words belong to Webster
Great poems Heathe. Your words cut to the bone, cut to the chase, get to the point. You look within, and without, with appropriate indignation. You don't let them grind you down. Your words stand up, stand against, always.
ReplyDeleteThank you so much to whoever wrote these (Strider?—apologies if I’m leaving someone out). Reading these made my day.
Delete