New and silly love poems

mike swanberg

Hey


I have traveled all this way to say hey
Again and again in your bed our faces
Hardly apart, hands always touching something,
Something, something moving quickly now
Like a fox late for work

And we keep announcing ourselves.
Hey and then quiet and then hey
And then kisses and no horses
And no music, sometimes music

And another circle spinning
And I am tracing you with my index finger
And I am building a small split level house
And it is on the ridge of your hip
And the surrounding property is low lying
And it might take a full day to walk
And I am lacing up my boots
And it is morning, still dark.



sebastian marcos smith puts in his two weeks



It is with a heart as light as a birds ribs
That I leave poetry, farewell Or don’t,
It is a girl now hopping around in puddles,
shoes soaked, I am building you a timeshare
in my chest, oh sweet thing in a sweater
in a t shirt, in my bed saying everything

then hours and hours of no poems, who should miss them?

It wasn’t me that said all those things in my poems
And this isn’t me who renounces that, she arrives
Thin as a whisper she, comes fully into my arms
And then kissing up the stairs

Who wants to read an only smiling poet?
Who could tolerate finding a forgotten twenty
In almost every pair of jeans?

Oh forget it, im retired, if that last image
Isn’t earned (and im almost certain it is not)
My sweet cousin called long distance

There is a boy I love, she said, and I have given
Him allen ginsberg's howl.



Wild Ginger in Chris' back yard.

I kiss her goodbye on the train and think
This morning when she said lets spend
The whole day in bed I said no but I meant yes

Damn the consequences, I would touch every inch
Hold my hand right above her flame
Push her fingers deep into my mouth

Oh I would pull myself to nothing from nothing
Spinning wildly like a dog, barking up her tree
Chasing her kisses like rabbits to the fence
And then digging and digging and knowing only
What dogs know, sweet burn of muscle
Flight flight flight across grass that needs mowing
An itch on my back that I am rolling in the fresh mulch
To scratch

I should have thrown the alarm clock right down
Onto the boulevard I should have made a joke
“why did the boy who wants for nothing
throw his alarm clock out the window?”

how did you come to poetry?

Some stuff by Amy

Louisville, KY


A few weeks ago, a bird died on the sidewalk. I don't know who killed her,
but I pass by every day and it's an above-the-ground grave, an open casket that nobody stops for.
At first her body is majestic,
rots but doesn't show it and she inspires side-step,
but after a week nobody clears her away,
and her wingless sinew inches toward the grass
to beg for an empty bed.

There should have been sirens when she was found,
airplanes and insects and all old winged lovers of hers
should have gathered, refusing to leave,
even though she's in too many pieces to detect a body
and she probably doesn't look how she used to.
Letting fewer and fewer things remind me of me and you
is how I'll let go--
when my sheets are a necessity and not anything we laid under,
when I don't picture you as handsome, only as a man,
I'll let you visit again.

I serve this bird by sending her invisible love letters,
by letting her body disappear
while praying that the last feather stays stuck to the ground
by way of fluids that escape from severed limbs
and latch onto whatever they touch.
You tossed me into bed but by then,
I wasn't listening to my breathing,
so I didn't know I'd grown extra lungs and an extra tongue,
both would have disgusted you and sent you away.
My windows were open and we could see the dirty part of the city,
but with you there
its gaping mouth and rusty teeth were only hungry.
I probably won't ever go back to Kentucky,
are you made of anything that flies north of there?



Centralia, IL


The hot air balloons in the back of my head
were risen like an Amish barn by the
stooped townspeople of small, southern Illinois,
all silent and exploding.
Their hot-handed sweat rubbed dirt into my eyes while
Angela refused to shake the springy brown axes hanging from her head out of her face.
She knew it wouldn't make a difference, they'd hate her anyway, the people--
she got to leave at the end of the night,
all they got to do was go home.

She--her sweat, her kinsmen--the children,
will drive their golden mini-van to the next town over until everyone can have their own clean bed,
while they, steadfast to the matted grass,
won't surrender the balloon pumped with flames and still stationary,
and all try to say never mind when the last lemon shake-up is sold.

They pack their trucks to lie down like dogs,
but I never smell blood how a bloodhound does,
the villagers' senses rendered as useless as mine--
we see dozens of white-hot checkered balloons and only want to keep them.
Feel wind electric from an escaped airplane and had until then forgotten the sky.

while waiting for his death sebastian marcos smith complains

mikeswanberg


This room is too stuffy it smells like shoes
Not leather shoes a boy has been working in
And worse the television is stuck fuck
These little nurses prancing by distant as clouds

Com here little girl let me slide my snakes tongue
Oh nevermind give me a handful of pills doctor’s orders
My heart has been killing me my entire life

How about a burger and fries do you hear me out there
I press the button someone comes I press it and hold it down
Nothing

My feet are cold
Where the hell are my shoes?