Friday, April 11, 2014

kids in my ear water watching

and he wanted a packing house saline

pretty little space invader prayers

Thursday, April 10, 2014

they think I'm complaining
explaining his little seeds

There's a kind of thing we need to shape
and then it dissolves backward

and a finite child so child.

these grammar schools

transit can turn into a little bit
of a defiant tulip

banana singers fish farming
beginning a banana butter

feelings
reason
reason

Sunday, March 23, 2014

Rescheduled: DIA reading with Bruce Andrews! March 31

Bruce Andrews and Nada Gordon

Readings in Contemporary Poetry

Monday, March 31, 2014, 6:30 pm    add to my calendar

<p>Bruce Andrews and Nada Gordon</p>
Bruce Andrews and Nada Gordon
 
 

 

Event Information

Monday, March 31, 2014, 6:30 pm
535 West 22nd Street, 5th Floor
New York City
$6 general admission; $3 Dia members, students, and seniors

Advance ticket purchases recommended. Tickets are also available for purchase at the door, subject to availability.
Publications by poets in the series can be found on diabooks.org.

 

Saturday, January 25, 2014

Squirm Pill

Now as I was pugilistic under the middlebrows
Above a minty mouth as slappy as a mondegreen
            Where right above the dingleberry
                        Crime let me flail in rhymes
            Moldy in the Fay Wray exercise
And horny among dragons I was winced at by caps and gowns
And once below the slime I hardly had the knees of bees
                        Frail with laziness, snarling
            down the quiver of the pinball fight

And as I was Oprah Winfrey, shameless in tangled yarns
About the papillons and clinging as the harm was form
            In the crumb that was somewhat lonely
                        Mimes let me bray and find
            Gordon in the smurfy antifreeze
and feeling mopey I was mutton and birdman, the elves’
sanctity corn, the loxes’ lonely trills snarking clear and bold
                        And Black Sabbath sang lowly
            In the Pebbles of the Bam-Bam dreams

All the dugongs they were sunning, it was grumbly, the shlemiel
flying with grouse, the moons in the kidney, it was there
            and swaying, mumbling and muttering
                        like frying sassafrass
            and politely under the pimple jars
I rolled the sleepy towels while staring at marmalade.
All the blue lanyards, messy and unstable, the gotchas
            vying with their pricks, and the chortlers
                        crashing into the quarks

A tremulous shake, and the bomb, like a quandary might
with the new, dumb lack, or querulous soldier, it was all
            timing, it was rad and amazing.
                        The guys chatttered again
            And the musky hounds began to bray
So it must have been after the jerk of that limber knight
In the words’ silly place, the spellbound nurses walking warm
            And shimmying, unstable,
                        Into the bleary haze

And wandered among toxins and peasants with the famous
under readymade crowds and snappy as the art was wrong
            as an unborn over and over.
                        I ran my sleepless maze
            My fishes spaced out the Mabuhay
And nothing I cared, in my Bayou shades, that time mellows
In all his rueful burning, such blue and such boring songs
            before the kitties mean and scolding
                        swallow him out of space

Nothing I cared, in the lamb lip haze, that time would take me
to the marshmallow sangfroid with a sparrow of a man
            to a tune that is anodyzing
                        Nor that riding a Jeep
            I should hear him shout to the Seinfelds
and quake to the charm forever bled from the violet band.
Oh as I was young and sleazy  like a new adzuki bean.
            Time held me like a lion
                        Though I came in my mane, like a dweeb.


Monday, January 13, 2014

New Energy to the World of Words




A helium balloon is soft and the soft is always expanding
into a repulsive little scab in a pattern of a mood swing
and he likes to look at me! he likes to look at me!
Women have a way of breathing new life into older white men
poised for imagery on a trip wire, always expanding verses
into steamy sapphic spectacles with lady parts their bros
in prose are afraid to touch. The IQs of agonized fleas are
flying pills, dominated by the difference between restraint
and restraints in the city’s changing literary balloon.
This consumer frenzy rose design performs orgasms,
weight gain, rashes, and diarrhea caught on film
at the poetry brothel and has an MFA in flashdancing.
Authentically dainty wordsmiths in the house of art fly off shelves
and he likes to look at me!  I’d like to start flossing menstruations.

Friday, January 03, 2014

part 2 of A POEM THAT SWELLS UP

I’m serious, I’m going to Paris.
I’m serious, I’m going to drain the brains of other cultures.

Seriously trying to donate a deer tick.
Guess I ask these beans?

My boyfriend is delicious.
My boyfriend whom I am in the page.

A message from thermal clarinets:
Newborn babies were realy something.

Desire for a minute ago
I watched a jar of fenugreek in the pee

Up up and BEAUTY
my wool over the miso in his countenance

I watched two episodes of beng a semicolon
I watched a black rayon kneelength pencil skirt, deep hopelessness

I’m serious, I’m going to the tomatoes to have poetry
in a wound incarnadine slightly musky and animalic

Big old honking vacuums of hair
in a secondlanguage environment

The worst song in my dreams five minutes ago
Wool over jammed mouths – loudish

Moaning a little trying to stay in the cisterns
Rubbing velvet princes

And sighing like a baboon in a sham farce
As a kind of vegan rabbi I can buy baby artichokes in my poems

Giant eel birds stand on the eardrum
Tonight’s bedroom and the suffering of animals

And humans concoct the unexplainable.
This loom of the hero is a feathery feeling

I watched the cats stuck to the curry.
They were supposed to stop yowling.

I watched two episodes of each penis
and both snails were busily ingesting this

Shocking pink suit, red thing, I am out

Purity? Wholeness? Wait.

Saturday, December 28, 2013

A POEM THAT SWELLS UP


Marta, I just don’t sufficiently explain the void
I know it is chilling to be

A piece of memory stuck to NYC
The hair fetishist guy feels like barking in English

Those guys from Paris turn into a midget
I wouldn’t be this torch or a squash or vegan shaman

mais je retourne a vacant queasy feeling
The older people are sparrows in the a cappella group

Please don’t have a morbid curiosity about the honk toy
or rustling gold tongues hung on the balcony to dry

You’ve probably been seen drawing exaggerated genitalia on the death of life.
I don’t really have to know your coded glom! Your grim lushes are there.

I found a more grotesque asthma I guess
I watched  a Hasidic man become a pen and notebook

I watched the sacredness of a Vogue magazine in 1972
I watched black drawstring bags with quickeyed love

I watched a second language environment with George Herbert
I watched a restive sleep

I watched a couple flarfing to lyrics – the hippies loving this
Maybe on the street yelling and crying

Saw Dorian Gray fishes and muzzles snatching with
green false eyelashes and gold paint, backchanneling fine print red mind

Got any waters of Lethe to use on those kids?
Those most amazing eel birds of reading anything?

This hair in a Spartan little commercial context
This hair in their place; my lap’s a commercial contest

This hair in my friends in the lack of F train
Is hair an extension of the quote you didn’t read?

Is hair an extension technology?
Buddha left his wife in the states I don’t care

Is hair an extension of forbidden things?
Is hair an undergrad i.e. not with enormous breasts.

Are you coming to be?
So…one should buy stuff

The honk toy, its thick sensuous lips
like grand temples on the rocky road to vibrancy

So much agape, and deep red velvet paintings
like exaggerated genitalia on the death of life

A voice in a cheap everywhere, pagodas of course
pagodas of everywhere, OMG OMG I learned from benzos

Was that yaki saba I just married? Cried softly…
Getting my own voice sounds like staging a jar

Pages 175 to 295 are a blue-colored butterfly gland
all night in my radical dollhouse

The nightmares of extermination you didn’t really need
I’m running around shtetls in babushkas

I’ve got kosher in my feet, cajole myself to kvetch
I turn into a midget with a great love of announcing things

Guess I’ll just give someone a lost yarmulke
against triteness, but don’t have a morbid curiosity about it

This torch I wouldn’t be
That seems unhealthy to the internet

The cats go to Spa Castle
Nemo’s thyroid tested because I ate it

The cats watch Gone with the Wind
and the problematic Teahouse of the Beasts Boy again

Nemo is seriously complicating the morning
Seriously I am I a poem that swells up

Spock is going to stay in my scream and would moan
I finally found my identity anymore

Waiting for the most important muscle pain
Even if we are line drawings

In bouffant silver wigs
I watched a coconut flake 

Writing an impassioned persuasive paragraph on rouge
but I do want to try and speak from another planet

Weaving in his garden Nada uses words
to sufficiently explain the many fevers

Hopefully it is fun to wake up
Anyone want to make fun to wake up

Woke up, watch out!
Sha SHIN, flash of light

Marta, I just don’t sufficiently explain the void
I know it is chilling to be.

Wait for the hortatory feeling

I’m serious, I’m going to emit us.

Thursday, November 28, 2013

HAPPY MANXGIVING

Are we really cats if we don’t
have tails? We are if we are Manxes.
Scrissags! Scrawls! Sleetchy old scrapers!
Hibernators! Castletown snots!
Big slugs, all sitting on our
shillings with our little crab wives
snurly and high. Cranberries dripping
down our chins Ayr ain t'ayns niau,
Casherick dy row dt'ennym. Have stained
our pilgrim suits! The expression for swallow is
_gollan ny geayee_: the fork of the wind.
We ate too much Manxgiving day
But we don't give a hoot.  We’re creepers, clicks,
clinkers, clukes, crooils, reezaghs, shliawns, slebbies, sleetches!
Us cats can actually be drawn with a series of circles!
We slurp a pile of dressing, gobble down  turkey thighs,
Dy jig dty reeriaght. Dt'aigney dy row jeant er y thalloo,
We dribble messy cranberries onto the bleihs, blebs, dawds,
flids, gapings, glashans, gogaws, gorms, hessians, kinawns,
 loobans, ommidhans,  slampies, sthahls, wallopers. We devour
some pumpkin pie. myr t'ayns niau.Cur dooin nyn arran
jiu as gagh laa, as leih dooin nyn loghtyn! We have very round heads
and rounded cheeks which gives us a jowly appearance;
Within us on this special day/ It's thankful hearts that beat,
so thankful for all the peevish people, especially small scolding women:
borraghs, coughties, crabbies, cretchies, corodanks,
gob-mooars, gonnags, grangans, grinnders, grouws, huffies,
mhinyags, pootchaghs, scrissies, scrowls, smullaghs,
spiddaghs, targes. We’re thankful for all the things that we
enjoy/ But mainly for the eats. For we are high in the hindquarters!
with back legs much longer than the forelegs! thus causing
our rumps to be higher than our shoulders!

Happy Manxgiving!