Archive for poesy

Three Poems by Brian Morrisey

Posted in Brian Morrisey with tags , on February 10, 2012 by Scot

PIERCED SKIN

I eat the flowers
you write about
during breakfast
well intended
for coffee-breathed
liquid nightmares
found corridors
of misconceptions

You curse my name
postmarked for death
rejected poet
who fails to pierce skin
crosshairs of blurred images
within the misconception
of what appears insulting
without noticing
the enveloped secret
gift-wrapped directions
to the hidden valley
short-cut
to the poet’s promise land
well-defined
a descriptive intensity
to counteract every cliché
“…come one… come all!”
____________
STUDYING GRACE

The editor watches carefully
Actors in the masterpiece
studies grace
Creates collective pallets
It’s the newness of a voice
It’s the cold hammer of reality
It’s the importance of stepping off the sidelines
Present his stage
To say something worth saying
To light a fire to burn the ass off tomorrow with feeling
Ignited wicked heat of emotion
Run wild down streets of words and images
In search for heroes of tomorrow
Through madness of everything
Through beautiful sex between words and images
The editor wants more
will take no less
The rest of the world can wait

____________

I NEVER HUNTED

In 1989    I knew
men will be men
immersed in a
hunt for the kill
bitch-slapping mother-nature
one last time

unnecessary dribbles
of beer-can-foul-mouthed poetry
carry through winter wind
buried under our tracks
stiff moulds of work boot soles weighing
loaded rifles   heavy clothes    light expectations
into the White Mountains

A temperature of 15 and falling
freezes stillness in
the eyes of new hampshire
blind by
birch   pine    maple   evergreen

lost in deep content
off the beaten path
sidetracked
from teetering reality
we sit hidden

my father drinks
tells me something
I don’t remember
waits silent and ready

there is a river
deer we tracked
like us
in nature
are bound to drink

There is a time
that passes through
the blood of beauty
I remember

A gunshot
in the distance
I take aim
I am drunk
Bambi came running

I watch her pass
in awe of her wildness

He watched me
He didn’t shoot

There were no words
There was only
a mountain   a river   a deer  a wildness
and
there no invitation
for another hunting trip

Occupation Interupted for this important message from Poesy

Posted in Splake with tags , , on December 15, 2011 by Scot

Stop the revolution long enough to read Brian’s review of t. kilgore splake’s rusty truck press chapbook–facebook.

http://www.poesy.org/reviews.html

and while you are there pick up a copy of Poesy– one of the best in the small press– dedicated to Scott Wannberg