Cole Phelps Submits Confessional Poetry to a City’s Celebrity Gossip Magazine in the Hopes of Provoking a Police Response
I’m going to write a confessional poem and neither you/ nor all the cops in christendom can stop me.
-Donald Food, “I’m Not Into Bataille’s Rotting Teeth Anymore”
met a better best man at a concert in a gallery
than the best man I met rolling around on the floor
of the boiler room in a shirt that said I heart Hentai:
met a man better than east coast players playing
solitaire at my grandmama’s salon along
the cote du Swann. said oh la la
to all that and posed for an instagram
with my foot raised on a cable box
waving a magic wand.
I found this verse in ancient Pottermore,
I flaneured around for miles and miles
wringing out my lace cuffs in ancient Pottermore:
Je veux marcher toute la nuit
dans une ville ou le parfum est comme
une humide veste de crystal
with transparent perfume then
crashing at my ancentral ground
so I can have lucid dreams about
In a dream, sound advice from Jim Rash:
a beautiful thing is emerging in Delaware,
where benevolent genies invented Aubrey Plaza—
a beautiful thing is emerging from Christ Crown of Thorns,
where we all lost our virginities to girls
who kept their black sweater vests on—
your coupons are expiring beneath the Villa
Valetudo—your best men are getting way
a beautiful city is emerging from the soil
of your under-rated fatherland—
albedo rhymes with celebrity semen scraped
from refurbished Macbooks and cooked up
in man-shaped crucibles—
we’re gathering in secret
to bring new squeakquels bawling into IMAX theatres—
I dreamt I was a futuristic film executive,
pissing in a public bathroom where all the walls
were two-way mirrors. I kept washing my hands
for hours. All the other executives and me
slept in a large plastic pod with white noise.
We all wore black dresses and some wore purple bras.
Jim Rash said: don’t go to sleep angry.
I had black hair and very neat fingernails.
The next morning, I watched television by myself.
In the dreams of Pete Campbell, enter
Rory Gilmore with enormous breasts, and wings
for a coat. A clue could be a real name
unearthed from a blotter, or google image searching.
Move your hand to move my finger along a column of names
that could correspond to a significant event, or could be
entirely forgettable. Or Fist fight an out-of-work
mechanic in his kitchen.
A clue could be my hat knocked off my head in one thousand
sudden quicktime events. With the noise of the dispatch.
I too fell into disrepair when a tree caved in my roof in 1939.
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