Archive for September, 2017

the memory collective by Elle Surtees

Posted in Elle Surtees with tags on September 13, 2017 by Scot

the memory collective,
less lineal / more ethereal.
girls w/chain-link-print shadows,
cast on skin living between boarders.
concrete blocks, razor fences
made for invisible edges.
babies born again all day,
met w happiness and/or accidentally.
sex machines/dolls/pretend human beings.
made to order, move to suburbs
from far away foreign factories.
fuck toys, lovely babes
some are real, some are fake.
pretty please, lie out loud
when you lay on the bed.
one made up to play w body,
other body plays w head.
magic in the marrow
of the bones our bodies own.
lust dressed like love
mixed w liquor and on drugs.
hyper heart, hopped fence
went too far real fast,
came away w a past.
4 walls up high,
sow deep seeded defenses.
behind them lonely is a darkness
full but empty, ashamed, exposed, defenseless.
fifteen-plus-year thin threaded dreams,
don’t stand a chance made in china.
born dead in paradise, alive momento mori.
inspected, directed, injected, rejected
altogether yet seperate inside
the memory collective.
_____

glory holes lit by cigarettes
see-through, make the show.
nights danced till dusted,
acid drawings, cocaine eyes
heroin blood on the walls.
call it like you see it,
or keep it secret in the stalls.
embrace the future,
paved parking spaces.
specially reserved,
isolate the greatest races.
blue eyes in glass boxes
looking down from somewhere high.
real estate, virtually thin air up in the sky.
back in the day, they all say…
something better used to be here.
all-night neon booth bed diners.
want a tip bitch?
starving children, bastards
will come dine, then they ditch.
take all my cents if you need it.
but back the fuck off my senses.
get ready, put a coat on
it get’s so cold outside.
freezing, lost, vegas-desert-winter,
sometimes it looks like
it’s gonna feel that way forever
all the time.
then a ray breaks through
finds me bc i know it’s mine.
w light that’s gold, looks real
and all the good things feel true.
_____

better take off you’re closed.
then unsettled again still.
hungry man dreams
a stale doughnut fairy.
pissed his pants, more than once
dude was drunk, high on junk.
made his place on the ground
inside a bus stop.
dreams came true
and rolled through.
under a bench,
w few dirty donated blankets.
sugarmeals on wheels
hand delivery by skateboard
seemed like a sad man
was truly happy
in that moment.
dirty old guy, down on his luck.
his kind smile real,
he gave that to me.
i gave him food
rescued from dumpsters
by me.
_____

slut red, some said
ponytails, screaming
pulled apart.
a plastic seat
under a doorway frame.
fingers greasy,
nails, chip painted
out the dirt, under the bed.
run in the hair top ya head.
knew a girl once, broke many times.
filled the kitchen w flies, a beast arrived.
girl broke my heart,
its hard to do.
tall tales,
w long tongue
licking asses of all the guys
she slayed they passed her by.
saw a spirit form from bottled pills
in the dark, double up
took her away
inner being spilled.
lost in stained carpet,
some crumbling stucco hallway.
you got a son, why won’t she shine?
i got a flower, this will never dies.
alive inside my memory
all ways isolated
always by my side.
under glass broken from promises
somewhere far away one day i swear i will be free.
our symmetry in common burns,
memories stay not as warm.
thangs ain’t the same w/o power.
live free / kill the pain,
all day / every hour.

_____

cultured naturally
un-nurtured adult-kid
you’re getting away
little scared maybe still
but this feels kinda big.
ya gonna get that way
anyway someday.
just for now, or never.
nothing is forever.
_____

carrying things takes forgiveness,
weighted and endless.
shit don’t always add up all the time.
work out, or even matter.
blood-n-teeth stains
temporarily remain
flesh novelty
wear it flashy
it’s not for every night,
right now because of this,
we’ll never ever be the same.
things die, some just stay there,
rotting inside.
hardening the blood.
near the chest area.
how is it actually a twisting pain
there, inside my heart?
i know it sounds like bullshit.
but it feels harder sometimes and heavy
i choke on it a little, so I know
for sure something’s wrong in there.
mini anxiety ghost knife-like reminders.
cracking knuckles, pulling hair.
4 steps forward
2 steps 2 many and 2 late
bet on a gamble, poor you, picked wrong pony
w the shotgun at the gate.
state of mind state, please stay gold.
fuck the world
for the win
love ya neighbor
beauty inside never gets ugly or lonley.
let’s get high,
all i ever wanted was to fly.
crash pilot falling from the sky
get lost maybe,
don’t come back.
knew quite a few
who didn’t mean too,
but left the rest of us here like that.
love,
the one resonance, autonomus eternal.
I ain’t so much familiar just quite yet.
I know it’s gotta be there somewhere.
hidden obvious, out in the open.
once you find love i’m pretty sure after that it’ll all be free
at least thats what i hope…
because that’s something good in me i can still see.

 

 –Elle was born in Australia raised in Hawaii left home for Vegas at 15. Her parents are artists She is a working artist. She lived in Tijuana for 6 months.

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viretta park by John Grochalski

Posted in John Grochalski with tags on September 13, 2017 by Scot

–for kurt cobain

kurt
i couldn’t write a poem
with enough sorrow back then
although i tried on the morning bus
looking out at east liberty concrete
in the new pittsburgh spring
all sad boy poet pose playing nevermind in my headphones
maybe i lacked the proper empathy
didn’t understand suicide
with a girl willing to take her clothes off for me
telling me she loved me all the time
kris and i saw allen ginsberg read poetry
the night i found out you died
and i turned twenty the day after
that girl i mentioned
well…she wanted to make the night special for me
so hopefully you can forgive me
for being just a touch distracted back then
but kurt the thing is
standing here in viretta park, seattle
twenty-three years later
in a neighborhood i could never picture you living in
looking at a bench with your name
your lyrics scrawled all over it
that ghostly house hanging in the distance
an older, gray man
at an age you could never even contemplate
i’m still not sure that i have the words
or maybe my existence since that time
has now far outstretched my empathy
and capacity for sorrow
how terrible that we missed each other in that cosmic way
i wish i could tell you something dumb
like just concentrate on the music
or that life doesn’t just become habitual
and that you’ve really got to search for the moments
after you reach a certain age
but right now, kurt
i kind of don’t want to prove you wrong or right
or even lie to myself
i just want to take a picture of this bench
hold my wife’s hand
and walk down to lake washington
watch as the sun shimmers off the water
before we head back to the city
where the young kids
are all still wearing your t-shirts
still looking for signs of life
still looking for a way through you
to escape.

the older hispanic men by Justin Hyde

Posted in Justin Hyde with tags on September 13, 2017 by Scot

 

i met
in detasseling fields
factories
& roofing crews

had nothing
or very little

besides aztec grace
& the dignity
of a bald eagle
high
on their shoulders

something of durango
jalisco
echoes of pancho villa
swirling
in their marrow

men like luis
ramiro
enrique

clockwork

no pensive
shame

or existential
brittle

i stood
in their shade

those lean
wandering
years.

even(ing) by Paul Koniecki

Posted in Paul Koniecki with tags on September 13, 2017 by Scot

 

when in every dream
i am william cutting
five points bill the
butcher cursing or fighting

american eagle false eye
controlling every other move
like a star trek
ceti eel larvae and

i wish daniel crocker
was here to put
it (all) in a poem
and save me between

fits of lost control
panic mania hurricane eyelids
man’s inhumanity to sleep
and again to man