Friday, May 30, 2014
Creeping mists, an evolving pantheon
of Italian shadows that play and whisper
peak by peak, son by son. It hangs near
and far, inhalation steam of minds.
Hair is moist in visiting clouds, a smothering
shuts out trivia. We want to tickle these giants
the trembling ones, white and loose as whores.
They wait posing in blissful sunsets, potent
crusts pastel washed or smouldering as six nuns
ecstatic extras ghost past scrub beech
having kissed graffitid rock. I am a personal blur
to them despite Roccamagiore's beef tomatoes
bulging in pockets. Lift all curtains. Delicious
seascapes to the east but not today. No fine
tuned trees. The travertine is cracked, tumbling.
A falcon mopes timing his limits of flesh
and bone through meshes of fine grey.
Thursday, May 15, 2014
Don't fuck with that bullshit.
I'm the kind of allergy that doesn't care.
If it's a happy thing, just pluralize it.
Obviously this is an act.
Literally millions of skies are forming in my mouth.
Congeal makes it sound planned.
A small hummingbird weeping for everyone.
Birds can't cry in 3D.
For my birthday, give me my past.
Hall and Oates knew a thing or two
about hair product.
I'm not informationally sound.
I bleep myself constantly.
There was a forest
and we lied about it
with concrete. I have a jumbo feeling
that I'm on a menu and you're ordering
the number next to me.
You'd be surprised how many fossils you can buy
on eBay. I asked a girl if I could
get her a strawberry milkshake
and she said 'strawberries are yucky you lose.'
Ah, to be beside your own synecdoche.
There is no redemption
in this life.
That was a question.
Bending the rainbow:
an average task for Ridiculists.
I learned most of what I know from Harry Potter spells.
You're not wrong to ignore me.
In the center of the earth
there is a small gender-neutral ladybug
You need only look to find the answer
to the answer key. There are literally millions
of answer keys in my mouth.
I hate wide kissing.
A tessellation for your time.
A real ghost of a guy.
The utensils all looked like hands
so he ate them.
Cannibalism is a national treasure
in my heart.
Nothing is official.
I'm writing to you in a totally normal state.
I write the most avant garde shit
out of any of you persimmons.
I didn't know he was actually a persimmon. Tell him I'm sorry.
No that sounds impersonal.
Persimmon, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.
If you cross me again, I'll eat you.
Have you read Li-Young Lee's poem where he uses you
as a metaphor for a vagina?
I am the most well misread person.
Keep the markups coming.
Wheelchair by Dior. Casket by Chanel.
Morgan Freeman is narrating something quotidian
and I have a life-affirming boner.
My ex-girlfriend is listening to Patsy Cline on Spotify.
What could be sadder to me.
Maybe it's not too late to make everyone fall in love with my flaws
I think in a problematic way.
I'm going to start stealing weapons
from action figures. Little empowerments.
I need to teach myself ESL.
Need vs. want is a false dichotomism.
A cloud for a cloud.
Give me one reason to stay here.
What about music, Tracy Chapman?
What about the late 90s?
I'm using you as a sounding board.
Let's let Li Young Lee use us both.
As we were.
A catalog, a list, a cluster of related categories, etc.
I only want a little bit.
I gave everyone in Vogue a mustache except you.
That was a love poem.
A pain in my side is revealing itself slowly
to be my love
for pain. I never got the whole
thorns & roses metaphor.
Big deal. Bleed.
No, believe me, as an unreliable narrator, I totally understand.
Literally kazillions of lollipops later
and I still taste your saliva.
We're all so gross.
How long does it take you to call the hotel home?
Before you take a picture of the moon
do you ask? Do you say, say cheese?
No wonder the gloom.
Rae Armantrout is giving a conference on arms and trouts.
I heard it's pretty silent.
Ugh, you probably already know everything.
The secret to getting your hands to stop smelling like garlic
is to let yourself chill for 3-4 weeks.
None of us have jobs.
Oprah demanded I leave this part in.
No, I don't remember that scene in Forgetting Sarah Marshall.
The neural pathways are already so narrow why
make your poetry dance even smaller?
Science is dead.
Science is a little pink balloon, anyway, so why should you care?
So, if it ends, it's meaningless?
I'm not following my autocorrects.
A worshiper of an oilspill of sunset.
A sunset revised as darkness.
Sunsets are good for the environment.
Go home or go big.
Those are my favorite teams.
It's not opposite day.
The hotel is forgetting your name.
I'm a sucker for spitting.
A brief descent into the Montana of her heart
and then the long-awaited premature ejaculation:
a few pieces of confetti
floating with the brio of dinosaurs.
The past tense is so fucking strong.
I mean, Jesus.
In the light of that, I’m still deciding if I want to be
spared the technicolor.
FYI the treadmill is running away
making people exercise
like they had just been unparalyzed
for the first time.
so much Jameson I'm practically ginger on the way
to excess in the backpages hey let's stop at the diner
talk about pretty things eat soup maybe Flight 370 disappeared
because I need a metaphor for you Paul and I listen
to Broadcast on his futon and choke on cookies and I don't know
about going to Brunnenburg this summer there will
be people and then there won't and the whole thing
seems lame like an e-cigarette or pinball I want to
start a dating website called somewhat-normal-not-flaky-
do-some-art.com an obvious attempt to distract myself from
MFA debt too many theories about Beyoncé this mind of scissors
just wants to make beautiful origami a real swan for once in
gold lamé and skin and the beginning of spring can that be a thing, TMZ?
Peter Cole Friedman is a poet and artist based in New York City.
He is currently pursuing an MFA through the University of New Orleans.
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Don't know if I’ve spelt that right
And I'm just not that bothered
I wondered "what's the quickest way there?"
For often I am permitted to return to a bookcase
That joke about holes with the punch-line "jumper"
The cable-knit cardigan folded in two
On the floor that I step over daily
And the field that I cross on the way
To conclude “this thought is unuseful”
At the end of the day, at the end
Of the poem (in 3 lines time)
There'll mostly be a rollercoaster
Love versus friendship versus scared of causing hurt
Please do not stand up
Six miles of dazzling lights
I am sick
Of the tick, tick, tick of the track
Do not touch me
But do drop in for tea sometime
Airborne infections list
Or a la carte menu
My nose is bleeding
But my heart is intact
My heart is rotten
The ticking and the ticking, the ticking and the tocking
A stomach eating itself
And occasionally flipping
Side effects may include convulsions
I can smell your hair still
And trails of burning frankincense
Forming letters spelling
The Mancunian Way was where we sat down and
Wiped the crescents from our memories
Our out of focus faces (so close)
Fade to black
Davo asks : which way's north from here
And am I the shining light?
The reply: no, I am dim
And destined to be unseen
Til I’m over on Friday
Pangs of regret in the maisonette
And yearning. Mainly in the morning
By the Juliet balcony
I am a famous historical lover
With medals and certificates
And sadness on Saturday evenings
Which is something, for the weekend
Cheralyn: how are you doing?
And Brendon said to say "hi"
I spit in the sky it falls in my eye
The way everything finally falls
Like us, down laughing, thinking of big organs
On Sunday mornings