“Clean Slate”
by
Tom Clark
3 free services of the
weightless cool environment:
a light blue wall for breathing,
a bright red wall for energy,
a broad green wall for warmth.
Tag: Poetry
“Poems for Bad Children” — Andrew Hudgins
“Poems for Bad Children”
by
Andrew Hudgins
I
We buried the bird but the cat dug her up,
cat dug her up, cat dug her up,
we buried the bird but the cat dug her up,
so we ground her in the disposal.
We buried the cat but the dog dug her up,
dog dug her up, dog dug her up.
We buried the cat but the dog dug her up,
so we cremated her in the oven.
We buried the dog but the kids dug him up,
kids dug him up, kids dug him up,
we buried the dog but the kids dug him up
so we chopped him into pieces.
We buried the kids but the cops dug them up
cops dug them up, cops dug them up,
we buried the kids but the cops dug them up,
and where we are going we won’t be dug up
after we sit on Ol’ Sparky.
II
Oh, sure, he can’t control his bowels
and since the stroke he drools,
and sings those dirty army songs
about the family jewels.
Refrain: When Granddad says, “Please kill me!”
you mustn’t help him die,
no matter how he begs and pleads
and tries to tell you why.
No matter he’s incontinent
and when he pees he bleeds,
just look him in the bleary eye,
and deny him what he needs.
He tells you all about his sores
and tries to make you look.
He tells you all his friends are dead
and he resents their luck.
Refrain
O, you can prop pills on his pillow
fetch water by the quart
but you must not help him swallow,
though he’s on life support.
Refrain
O, you can put the knife beside him
and tell him what it’s for,
but you must not hold it to his throat
and then complete the chore.
Refrain
O, you can hand Granddad the gun
When you’re a little bigger.
You can even click the safety off,
but you mustn’t pull the trigger.
When Granddad says, “Please kill me!”
you mustn’t help him die,
no matter how he begs and pleads
and tries to tell you why
“Texas,” a poem by David Berman
“Texas”
by
David Berman
first published in Caliban #8, 1990
Along the inner stream I found a hive split open.
I was deep in the country, where they said
I would find swollen dogs and trees covered in dust.
I found a house with windows and a door.
Once a man stumbled into the barn with a fresh axe wound.
I let him clean it out with vodka, then he pulled out
a red gun and told me he was gonna put me in the ground.
The sound made a hundred crows rise out of the field.
I remember sleeping by the pond,
waking up to see crumbled bees on the lips of a brown dog
standing over me.
I just lay there
trying to measure the diameter of its eyes.
I used to think I went there for the everchanging scenery,
or for the way the days just pass away.
They had told me Texas sat on the land,
harvests and oil, ten dimes to the dollar,
one star,
but those aren’t the things I saw.
I couldn’t walk an unbroken line there.
The window sill was a frame,
the state was a house,
and the doormat was on fire.
“A Parkersburg Vocabulary” — David Berman
“A Parkersburg Vocabulary”
by
David Berman
Sad Fingers (sad-fin-gurs) n. Nostalgia for an old area code. Ex: “He has sad fingers.”
Hoxter (hock-stur) n. A fellow who lacks the energy to live up to his own sociopathic heritage.
Roycambellside (roy-cam-bul-zid) adv. or adj. To be in the vicinity of Roy Campbell.
Blue Emberton (blu-embr-tun) n. A wealthy man who subsidizes his own murder, often through the employment of an idle hoxter.
Dratchell (dratch-II) n. A piano tuned to the shadows cast on a vacant lot.
Cloud’s Index (klowdz-in-dex) n. Spiral-bound notebook listing the names of people who have never returned Fred J. Cloud’s phone calls.
Pollygosters (poli-gos-turz) n. Tiny candy construction hats tossed out to children from the Persevering Light Pencil Company’s float during the Clown Baking Days Parade.
Dorchester Reproach (dorch-est-ur reap-roach) n.: Dismay at the enthusiasms of poor people.
Multipulchomy (mul-tee-pulko-mee) n. The performance of plastic surgery on a crowd; first tested at Parkersburg Civic Center in July of 2006.
Disinfecting the Toy (dis-sen-fect-in thu toy) v. The nightly pond-side ejaculation of subdivision security guard Jimmy Food Hill onto the head or back of a swan.
Quadriplegic Beekeeper (kwad-ruh-puh-lee-gic beak-eaper) n. Door County slang for an ineffective person; a poor employee.
Galsworthy Rideout (gals-wurthy rye-dout) n. A locally-built electronic circuit that allows pinball machines to speak in contractions.
Acroplarf (akro-plarl) n. 1. German aspirin manufacturer’s waltz, usually played on an upright dratchell. 2. Suicide pact written by teenagers on parchment paper with goose quills.
Emberdome (embur-dom) n. An arena built on the Techwood Industries campus for the purpose of crushing employee suggestions.
Door County Hum (dork-ownty hum) n. A sensation often experienced by area men while wearing bathrobes; that they have suddenly been transformed into little terrycloth churchbells, inside of which their balls jingle jangle when they walk.
Tohapaxno’s Bias (toe-ha-pax-noze bi-us) n. The bothersome late-night invocation of Ritchie Blackmore’s Rainbow, by Mixed Emotions bartender, Jim Tohapaxno.
Hobbledehoys (hobbul-dee-hoiz) n. Crowd-control tacos distributed by Parks and Rec. Department vans during the state butterfly census.
Polish Infinity (poal-ish in-fin-uh-ti) n. 1. Cologne imprinted on an empty elevator. 2. The nowhere vibe of a new megastore. 3. The EKG of a boulder or large stone.
“The Disappointment” — Aphra Behn
“The Disappointment”
by
Aphra Behn
1
One Day the Amarous Lisander,
By an impatient Passion sway’d,
Surpris’d fair Cloris, that lov’d Maid,
Who cou’d defend her self no longer ;
All things did with his Love conspire,
The gilded Planet of the Day,
In his gay Chariot, drawn by Fire,
Was now descending to the Sea,
And left no Light to guide the World,
But what from Cloris brighter Eyes was hurl’d.
2
In alone Thicket, made for Love,
Silent as yielding Maids Consent,
She with a charming Languishment
Permits his force, yet gently strove ?
Her Hands his Bosom softly meet,
But not to put him back design’d,
Rather to draw him on inclin’d,
Whilst he lay trembling at her feet;
Resistance ’tis to late to shew,
She wants the pow’r to say — Ah!what do you do?
3
Her bright Eyes sweat, and yet Severe,
Where Love and Shame confus’dly strive,
Fresh Vigor to Lisander give :
And whispring softly in his Ear,
She Cry’d — Cease — cease — your vain desire,
Or I’ll call out — What wou’d you do ?
My dearer Honour, ev’n to you,
I cannot — must not give — retire,
Or take that Life whose chiefest part
I gave you with the Conquest of my Heart Continue reading ““The Disappointment” — Aphra Behn”
Legman assman bustman, abominable Henry | John Berryman
“Legman assman bustman, abominable Henry”
(from Henry’s Fate and Other Poems)
by
John Berryman
Legman assman bustman, abominable Henry
wandered thro’ France & Italy agog:
my God what visible places.
Everywhere he studied with both his eyes the faces
of those whose fates were his, like a Sligo bog
to be cut & burnt, or be
flourisht amongst great clouds for a long time
ah next San Marco choiring, who was cut off
just ere he finisht his work,
Henry’s destiny? He fought it tooth & rime
country to country, hanging on. When he’s had enough
he’ll mount into the dark
but not (praise Serenissimo) until
tranquil in Athens to the final touch
he takes his restless labour.
O he is not working as at the mill
nor is he working yet for any neighbour
save two, whom with the future he counts on much.
“0,” a poem by David Berman
“0”
by
David Berman
first published in Caliban #8, 1990
On the very first day Jah gave light,
and on the second he made the sun and the stars.
It wasn’t long before things were jumping out of the river.
Later there were some wars, mostly soft and bloodless,
with snow falling on the sleeping tanks
and pieces of field glued to their wheels.
No longer all right to eat our young,
we made the Empire State Building and threw things off it,
then drank sidecars and Harvey Wallbangers until 1961.
People were heard to say that the world doesn’t care,
that the walls don’t listen, and the stars only shine on us
because we’re in the way of their light,
but the world continued to spin on its sturdy axis,
and underneath the Christmas trees the trains still ran on time,
while people united in sexual congress let pride feed.
“The Birds” — Emmy Bridgwater
“The Birds”
by
Emmy Bridgwater
from
Surrealist Women: An International Anthology (ed. Penelope Rosemont)
“The Birds”
One
He pulled the blanket over and he drew up the blind. The yellow mice rushed into their corners. The spiders ran behind the pictures. The lecture began on Christ the Forerunner. Only the very young mice sat still to listen. The blackbirds flying near the window passed the word to each other. “Come on. Here we may find something. Something to put our beaks into.” Snap went the window cord; down came the blind. The birds, disappointed, did the best they could. They flew nearer and nearer the windowpane. It was dangerous. It wasn’t worth it. But they wanted to get the news—to be the first to know—to pass on the news. What had come to the lecture on Christ? Did one still lie under the blankets? The spiders laughed into their hands to think of the birds outside all twittering and over-anxious.
Two
As she walked into the garden the birds flew down to her pecking at her lips, “Don’t do that,” she cried, “It’s mine. I’m alive you know.” “Well, why don’t you wear colors?” She heard them talking. “Dead people walk, but they don’t wear colors. They scream and they talk too.” The birds went on chattering about dead people. They all perched up on the holly bush but they didn’t peck the soft berries. They just stared down at her. All of them stared with their little black beady eyes. They were looking at her red lips.
Three
“Sing a song for the King. Come on, now sing.” The child was shy to start, but her mother, standing behind her gave her a little push which startled her into opening her mouth and she began, “Wasn’t that a dirty dish to set before the king?” “Begin again dear,” whispered her mother, “at the first line,” “O.k. ma,” and she chanted, “Four and twenty black… oooh,” for a peacock had walked in front of her and spread out its tail and croaked “Frico. Frico.” The little girl went very white. “Frico. Frico,” she said. The birds, who had been sitting on the cornice as part of the decoration, flew down into the court and circled about the heads of the King and Courtiers, fluttering as close as possible. All the people flapped their hands helplessly. Suddenly the little girl pointed at the King. “You must get out of here,” she said in a grown-up voice. “This is their Palace.”
“California,” a poem by David Berman
“California”
by
David Berman
first published in Caliban #8, 1990
It’s a movie based on a true story,
it’s a fat boy on a train with a dollar,
it’s got no cavities
and God on its shoulder.
Red meat, white people and blue skies,
it’s 50 states stuck together with barbecue sauce.
If you’re poor, someone will cry for you.
A cup of water is free
and the slave population here is zero.
From Arizona’s desert drug factories
to the hot sidewalks of Little Rock
to Florida’s Jewish beaches
people feel good about themselves
and their bodies.
Of course it’s hard to forget the kids outside Pittsburgh
who are into sorcery and stuff,
and the crooked men and women of Nevada dreaming of crime
in their blackened houses.
But on Sunday, when balloons float above the stadium,
and the highways stretch like cats under the hot sun,
we drive to the pool knowing the wheels could fall off,
and even California loves its future ocean grave.
“Barricades of Welcome” — Pete Winslow
“Barricades of Welcome”
by
Pete Winslow
Welcome from the Kiwanis and Rotary
Said the sign by the road block
Welcome said the mayor
Locking all doors with the key to the city
Each motel had a sign that said welcome
But the wind whistled through the rooms
And there was no furniture
The Chamber of Commerce gave you a map
Showing the way out of town
An angry mob carrying welcome signs
Chased you across the city limits
You could hear it for miles as you ran down the highway
An insane cry of welcome welcome welcome
You were well on your way to learning the language of
the place.
“James A. Garfield and All the Shot People,” a poem by David Berman
“James A. Garfield and All the Shot People”
by
David Berman
Insects are a manifestation of negative will.
—Anon.
I thought I saw an angel below the engine
but it was just vibrating air.
People used to see things
in the woods and the air and the closet:
spirits, dragons, and headless things,
lost and angry floats
conspiring to make every stomach pulse
like an almost accident
and every body’s head come unwound.
Our vision is not so fuzzy now.
We stare into eyes and see their parts,
have cameras, sidewalks, pills,
and other futuristic devices.
Some of our race have counted up into the highest numbers,
the high clear numbers.
Now we know the speed of light,
and that we never see anything just when it happens,
but a part of a second afterwards.
People are getting lost in their own houses,
wandering down hallways and through rooms for years.
We stumble downstairs full of water,
and when I wake up it all pours out of me.
From Caliban #8, 1990.
The issue also contains a few illustrations by Berman, including this one:
Richard Hell’s Godlike (Book acquired, 23 Jan. 2026)
Richard Hell’s 2005 novel Godlike is getting a new printing from NYRB. Godlike reimagines the volatile Verlaine–Rimbaud dyad as a 1970s No Wave New York collision of art, desire, and language language language. Symbolist rebellion transmutes into downtown punk nihilism, drugs, and poetry. This corrosive Künstlerroman was originally issued by Dennis Cooper’s Little House on the Bowery (an imprint of Akashic books). Read the description/blurb at NYRB; here’s a taste from Chapter 15, around the middle of the novel:
They spent the greatest amount of their time together reading and writing and sometimes talking in T’s apartment. These were probably their best times too despite being experienced largely as tedium. They preferred the times of thrills, but the thrills grew out of the tension; and the mild, mildly restless, half-frustrated times of the many nights and late afternoons of doing almost nothing in T’s apartment, or walking the streets without direction, were their true lives.
T’s room was like some kind of glum office in its lack of daylight and its featurelessness, but with the little pictures now tacked on the walls, and the typewriter and sheets of paper, and the drugs, it got some character. He’d picked up a few stray pieces of furniture on the streets, including a table and three chairs, crates for shelves, and a beat-up old oriental rug. There was a secondhand portable record player too and a few albums.
They drank coffee and beer and sometimes codeine cough syrup and sometimes smoked some grass or snorted a little THC or mescaline and every once in a while a tiny bit of heroin, but mostly they lay around and lazily, impatiently goofed and wrote and complained, goading each other. Sometimes in the middle of the night one of them would go out for a container of fresh ice cream from Gem’s Spa. They’d go to a movie sometimes, or wander the rows of used bookstores on Fourth Avenue, or drink in a bar, but most of t he time was spent in the dim back apartment.
The days and nights were as endless as wallpaper patterns. Boredom and irritation were normal and lengthened out into sometimes-mean giggles and into pages of writing. Writing was their pay. Books were reality. The room was a cruder dimension-poor annex to the pages of writing. The writing, as casual as it was—smeared eraseable typing-pages with revisions scribbled on and crumpled pages of rejected tries—was the brightly lit and wildly littered universe erupting out from the dark, poor, inexpressive room.
How odd is it to have as a purpose in life the aim of treating life-in the medium created for the purpose of coldly corresponding to it, words—as raw material for amusing variations on itself? Sometimes T. and Paul fantasized about this, imagining themselves as godlike philosopher poets encouched in the advanced civilization, languorously sipping their fermented grain as they spun ideas and mental-sensual constructions of life-language in the air for the pleasure of their own delectation.
“News,” a poem by Grace Paley
“News”
by
Grace Paley
although we would prefer to talk
and talk it into psychological the-
ory the prevalence of small genocides
or the recent disease floating
toward us from another continent we
must not while she speaks her eyes
frighten us she is only one person
she tells us the terrible news we
want to leave the room we may not
we must listen in this wrong world this
is what we must do we must bear it
“A Wish for Unconsciousness” — Thomas Hardy
“A Wish for Unconsciousness”
by
Thomas Hardy
If I could but abide
As a tablet on a wall,
Or a hillock daisy-pied,
Or a picture in a hall,
And as nothing else at all,
I should feel no doleful achings,
I should hear no judgment-call,
Have no evil dreams or wakings,
No uncouth or grisly care;
In a word, no cross to bear.
“After a Journey” — Thomas Hardy
“After a Journey”
by
Thomas Hardy
Hereto I come to view a voiceless ghost;
Whither, O whither will its whim now draw me?
Up the cliff, down, till I’m lonely, lost,
And the unseen waters’ ejaculations awe me.
Where you will next be there’s no knowing,
Facing round about me everywhere,
With your nut-coloured hair,
And gray eyes, and rose-flush coming and going.
Yes: I have re-entered your olden haunts at last;
Through the years, through the dead scenes I have tracked you;
What have you now found to say of our past—
Scanned across the dark space wherein I have lacked you?
Summer gave us sweets, but autumn wrought division?
Things were not lastly as firstly well
With us twain, you tell?
But all’s closed now, despite Time’s derision.
I see what you are doing: you are leading me on
To the spots we knew when we haunted here together,
The waterfall, above which the mist-bow shone
At the then fair hour in the then fair weather,
And the cave just under, with a voice still so hollow
That it seems to call out to me from forty years ago,
When you were all aglow,
And not the thin ghost that I now frailly follow!
Ignorant of what there is flitting here to see,
The waked birds preen and the seals flop lazily;
Soon you will have, Dear, to vanish from me,
For the stars close their shutters and the dawn whitens hazily.
Trust me, I mind not, though Life lours,
The bringing me here; nay, bring me here again!
I am just the same as when
Our days were a joy, and our paths through flowers.
Pentargan Bay.
“Identification Tags” — Tom Clark
“Identification Tags”
by
Tom Clark
Ghosts do wear sheets but not for sleeping.
Sometimes people die while still alive
and then come back to life
but only partially. You can read the signs
around the eyes, which get
a dusty look like burned out hundred watt bulbs.
When they pass one another on the streets
there is a soft noise, as of muslin touching.
A previously unpublished Dream Song by John Berryman
“The applause of the world comes to an empty heart”
by
John Berryman
The applause of the world comes to an empty heart,
sure the man is thinking now of something else,
something else, a fearless end
‘I have lost, of course, the fear of death’, BUT.
Messages enchant me, as from Ireland
I am an old middle-aged man about to do his best
I love old men
The bartender did just call me ‘my friend’
I say the wonder is these busy caves
explored by men, & then by men, & then
by cold & dismal
engineers, are so costless
Deep in the angels let the good coat come
& I will wheedle home, who misséd you,
I can’t fix him. He’ll go down there apart,
that would be the wicked part of him that falls.
Henry has in Ireland no friend.
Alone, in the half-dark
Read five more previously-unpublished Dream Songs at Conjunctions. The poems are collected in the forthcoming volume Only Sing: 152 Uncollected Dream Songs, edited by Shane McCrae.
Biblioklept 