Poetry

Miroslav Holub: The end of the world
I would like to publish an eclectic anthology. I don't know yet who will be included or excluded, it is a journey of first steps. Today, I try to say what I like about this little verse by the Czech immunologist and poetic giant Miroslav Holub, called 'the end of the world'. The bird had ...
Reading: John Ashberry – Some trees
What is it that I like about the following early John Ashberry poem (he was 21 when he wrote it)? To meet as far this morning / From the world as agreeing / With it, you and I / Are suddenly what the trees try
the echo that defines the abyss
I wake up at one thirty then I forget to eat and and fight myself the evenings are prettiest: I drink and watch hero movies in which heroes follow a direction
Toothache :)
I want to write an ugly poem about it that is fully artificial a temporary edifice in broken verse I want to reinvent every word to prey and rape the makers of my pain I want to kill the little man who reads the pain to me turn off his sound and wait and see ...
do you know a name? (parental guidance advised)
every Monday i wake up with with a pain that i am not allowed to call pain some subconsciousness has conspired to destroy whatever vital ambition i hate this fucking show but i am not allowed to turn it off week by week my life is rotting away i have lost all interest and inspiration ...
real hypochondria
I created this illness together with histamines and B lymphocytes to you, I imagine the pain worse: you nod and I recoil I have no heavens to curse and shallow is the temptation of the soil
Subway station
I imagine feeling elated when I walk in the underground concrete counting irksome smiles and turnstiles breathing bubbles into transient thoughts that need not be fierce and piercing I imagine yellow trains leaving on the lower levels that connect the shopping and further I imagine electric voices barking liberation from melting speakers and all the ...
The gizzard of Halcyon
The world is a forest we cheapskate light on the forest floor high above flies the body of the bird of cool. We fools look up to see if she's gone halcyon, junky of the cloudless skies deal me more words, I want to play. I want to prove I'm here I want the spirits ...
Ceci n’est pas un poème déprimé
The hatred of my hatred vindicates me: I am still a consciousness in and of the world, death foreshadowing in all of its tissues My body tortures itself I must watch, I watch pain is no measure as my spirit is gone this is not suffering: I am an automaton I don't want to wait ...