Saturday, June 1, 2013

Bad Poems Written By Famous Poets (Issue #10)

A Ghost As King Of All Rabbit Holes by Kenneth Goldsmith

east wades up
over water
of course
cornered or less round
husked and delicately aware in the shavings of space
elbows last or a dangled hand’s shiver
much that’s silver lasts
even while bemoaning one’s station and all that horse shit
redirect all impertinence to the ground
temperance builds stiff the stuff of a stunted dream’s sludge
or worse
there could be climbing down to do
still steady
a cavalcade of riddance rides curses to their finale
and an untouched soft bottom sidles chiffonier-like into trouble
perhaps spackled shadows retreat less in frenzy’s delicate bower
the quick stall and goad the dead for rubber candy bars
bill murray takes a dive
do not remark
“I looked at myself in the mirror and thought, ‘Why does that have to be me?’”
“Let me buy you breakfast or something, at least. You aren’t quite the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen, but you’ll do.”
but stay rowdy at heart instead
paste it in
chat around it
overtake the neurotic plunge or plumbed shallows of squalid spiffiness
while nobody’s at it
it’ll matter
like how they were selling soap on the radio
the day JFK got shot
kick yourself into the street and wait
daylight’s here for daylight’s sake
as the marsh of consciousness is busy sopping up the plain and noticeable
can have the rest
meant for
anticipating no ends
starts by on some other gentrified afternoon
or forgets to take in the mail

On Drugs by WS Merwin 

A box to beat a drummer
What can be said
Or ways of expressing what can’t
Anguished or what not or have or have not or you do
Strands white overlapping with currents of morning wind
Stitched without color or absence
Very the same way
As long as the kids get it
It’ll get by okay or almost okay
There don’t go the boats not so wonderfully
On to some death in Samoa
Or mangoes in a cartouche-covered dish
Reading randomly still
What’s pleasing
A pop-dead song lured into trouble
The purity of not knowing why
Never mixed up with ourselves
No more years to count away
I get a kick out of myself still
Happiest alone
With the widest margins in town
Taking whatever wont take me in too far
But gone
Remote and moneyless
Just like always
People pretend to care about me
But they don’t
I just know it
At least the cigarettes have not caught fire