Poetry and poets.
By: Damon Krukowski
“This song is sung at top volume.”
“The guitar grew heavy, heavier each day.”
“I sang directly into a tape recorder.”
“Our parents loved your music, but now they are dead.”
“I am mute, ignored, covered in dust.”
“Never, no matter how easy your instrument, begin to sing.”
By: James Parker
“Until I can get up into this trance,/all is randomness, all mischance.”
By: Douglas Wolk
Sore and bobbing, here’s my jeremiad…
“Should I lay down my war axe / and sit in the shit / and rotate beautiful colors in my bluebottle thorax?”
“Out to sea, out to sea,/where the albatross ungainly dives/and the cunning anchovy thrives!”
Lemminkainen, ice-locked,/hearing the groan of his trapped ship,/works up a counter-charm.
By: Franklin Bruno
In any job that must be fun there is an element of dun.
Mezzotint badonkadonk, rolling a cocktail cherry in Motrin, crushed up coke-fine.
“The churned sheets were a vortex/and there could be no more sex/because of the pain in my cortex.”
Don’t fire until you can see your reflection in the robot’s crotchplate.