Saturday, October 31, 2020
Friday, October 30, 2020
Thursday, October 29, 2020
I was first catcalled
by an adult man.
I was 11.
Here is the city pool
where an older boy
chased me into
the ladies' locker room
where I hid until
my mother came
to pick me up.
I didn't go back
Here is the vending machine alcove
where a group of boys
cornered me during
a forensics tournament
when I went to get
a cup of coffee.
So many locations
so many scenes of
so many crimes,
so many sites
These are the places we carry,
the cartography of our lives,
a terrain of wounds.
Memory charts no course
through rough seas, and these
are the spatial relations
we dare to traverse.
Wednesday, October 28, 2020
instant poets, just add arrogance and
social media platform persistence
look at, listen to, me me me
I insist that I’m important!
to a zero-profit market
it don’t hurt to be marginalized
it’s not the strength of line
nor command of style
but how well I can convince
you of my caprice and cleverness
in a world where posting a poem
is as easy as jerking off
usually the result is the same
come clean, a hot shower after
gratification comes with a price
Tuesday, October 27, 2020
Some of the so-called
that I sometimes watch,
try to suggest that we
are all living in some kind
of simulation, and offer
evidence of glitches in
the machine to back up
Now, to me it just seems
obvious that these people
have watched " The Matrix "
too many times, and have
mistaken it for some sort
Either that, or they have
taken WAY too many drugs.
But, apparently several
big time physicists also
believe it's true.
Well I don't know a single
thing about quantum
physics, or string theory.
To be completely honest
I watched a TV programme
about it, and it went way,
way over my head.
But what really convinces
me that I'm not living
in a computer generated
simulation is that it's
so bloody BORING !!!
Surely if some future
World Government wants
me to live in a simulation
for some nefarious reason
I don't quite understand,
then they would have made
it a lot more entertaining.
I could be battling robots,
or exploring new worlds,
having sex with gorgeous
Nobody would write a
computer program that's
this fucking dull.
Or, maybe I'm wrong,
perhaps that's the evil
twist, only a civil servant
could come up with
something so shit.
Monday, October 26, 2020
They know they’ll reel you in with those carefully spun words,
Words that read like music and make you swoon.
Words they use to build themselves up in their own minds
So they can carelessly compare themselves
to all that they’ve romanticized.
Go ahead and fancy yourselves a “new beat generation.”
String those words together as well as you can manage,
At least they’re pretty on a printed page.
They’ll make you blush.
Those smiles, that spark in their eyes,
They wear their costume – dark demented soul – so well
That you’ll fall for how they fall for you,
How they just can’t live without you,
They’re in love and they know it.
You’ll fall for how they watch you
Because you’ve never noticed a red flag in your life.
Animal-like. Almost primal.
They’ll play up their sob stories
Because it’s so much easier to play a victim or a martyr,
To tell you how unfair their lives have been
Then it is to tell you that they’re fucked up.
They’ll cry about how things didn’t turn out.
The dreams they never chased, never really worked for,
Surprise. Those didn’t pan out either.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
A few reworded quotes, a couple of lines
Read just the right way, in just the right voice.
Their picture, their video masked with just the right filter.
Deep. Tortured. Begging.
Please, please choke on this regurgitated shit.
There are men who write poetry who aren’t
Whiny, unevolved, poor little poetry boys,
But those men are poets,
Not boys who slide into your messages with:
Doesn’t love me anymore.”
“I’m sad so I can go behind her back,
But she belongs to me.”
“Sure, I’m messaging some cute young thing,
But that bitch finally found happiness
In a real man’s arms instead of
Worshipping and appreciating the ego that is me.”
Poetry boys spin their words with their pens,
Their typewriters – if we’re going to get real hipster about it –
Because real words, substance, gets stuck in their throats,
And they haven’t faced themselves in the mirror
In god knows how long.
They want you weak at the knees with your legs and heart open,
So they smile those smiles, wink those winks.
“Let me fill you up so I can fill up all the parts of me
That I haven’t already drowned out with booze.”
Because all the real artists are alcoholics, right?
Previously Published at HST and her chapbook Sad Discoveries
India LaPlace is kind of like if a dive bar and a dumpster fire had a human baby. She is a poet from the United States and a single mom who is aspiring to be a person with self discipline. Associate Editor at the sensational Horror Sleaze Trash. Generally pleasant, naturally cynical. Easily won over by a good book and a twisted sense of humor. You can find her on Instagram: @indiabrittany She still loves Louis C.K.
Sunday, October 25, 2020
in Night of the Living Dead,
just “ghouls” and “those things”--
undead corpses that lumbered
with relentless purpose
towards a human flesh barbeque.
Kill the brain
and you kill the ghoul.
Flush it with fire, until
it turns away, moaning.
Watch it cover its face
with half-severed hands.
Feet shuffle forward,
fingers grope past
the half-open windows
secured by flimsy boards.
They always come back,
multiplying first into hundreds
then thousands, like mutant
bacteria. No one is spared.
Virtue no armor. In fact,
the flesh of virtue tastes
best of all. In the end,
the cellar is the safest place,
but it’s too late to hide.
If you survive, a random bullet
will take you out later,
but at least you will never
become one of them.
Saturday, October 24, 2020
Talking to the devil
when you can say you’re not that kind person anymore but you still are
just quicksilver sliver of night shivering terror for the razor touch
she doesn’t haunt me anymore
nor do tragic mists and shipwrecking shark mouthed siren muses
my blood doesn’t flow in the water
like it used to
some of us
never outgrew Edgar Allen Poe and punk rock
some Camus for good measure
(as much as we’ve tried)
“What do you know about punk rock?” she asked
Friday, October 23, 2020
there is always more
each taste of blood and
always more . . .
all our endless, burning
horizons . . .
Thursday, October 22, 2020
Virtue crawls through his beard like
lice, an apt accessory to the branches
and banana peels in his composting biz.
My man! Reducing methane emissions
is just one sign of his beneficence.
Was a time we’d call him a know-it-all;
now we just eye him biking by, his
bins filled with rot, his smile a smirk.
I tend to hold a grudge till the eagle grins:
Dropped a buck once to an old teeter on a grate
and Mr. Man says, “You shouldn’t give them
money. There are better ways to give.
He’ll just spend it on booze.”
I said. Stopped at the corner packie,
procured a pint, sat down on the sidewalk
by my new dawg and shot the shit ’til dawn.
Wednesday, October 21, 2020
after a long day of chasing my infant son
away from the cat’s water bowl
i now have him chasing superfood puffs
around his highchair table
while i make chicken burritos
ipa and whisky handy and chet baker
tickling the ether through this
late september evening
my boy drops about half of the rings
with his less-than prehensile thumbs
but when he claws at one with his swollen clumps
he reminds me of me when i was too drunk to sleep
(I have never been too drunk to eat)
this piano and trumpet feel like i never had pain
like i should never care and now i know why
people become alcoholics but sadly
(or not at all sadly) i can never drink
in the morning to keep the numb
parade rolling down this blind curve
so i hurt and dry heave (if i go that far)
and as i have been selfishly writing
my son has ripped off his bib
and has placed a clotted puff in his hair
so i extricate it softly and reward
him with more puffs me with a sip
of beer all these distractions
from the great lingering pain
or the invisible god
in our wet
Tuesday, October 20, 2020
A baggie of weed she bought off the paperboy
Fell to the floormat from the glovebox
Of her Plymouth Satellite
As she fumbled for registration.
She knew how to work a room, danced
Until last call, and shot pool like a pro.
She was the one relative
To spend summer weekends with.
No nursing home could hold her captive.
Her last escape found her at a tavern two blocks away.
They found her in the glow of the neon,
A pool cue in one hand, a vodka 7 in the other,
The same smile she wore in that long ago mugshot.
Monday, October 19, 2020
In the dead-torn aftermath:
Ripped away from
The words must be
Of tortured souls
That a blood rain falls
Down so hard that
It burns, scars this earth
With its hatred forever of
Of what was
Where poets &
Up to the night stars
& bathed in heavenly
Once saw God
In suits & ties
And in the silence:
An old black
"We Shall Overcome"
Fear to tread
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