Poetry » Brett Stout »

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Crisp Paper, Dried Ink

pink paper and black ink,
I confess you,

Bob Dylan
acoustic
not
electric 1965
chromed Cherokee’s
scalp
linear blacktopped skin of
bad
local blurry used car promotional television ads,

white paper and black ink,
I confess you,

bent notebooks
bind and record
soiled by the water’s edge
rotting
in a living room closet
no
sanitary air freshener
is
getting rid of that pungent smell,

yellow paper and black ink,
I confess you,

receipts unreturned and setting ablaze
wooden floors
of
sand and volcanic ash
979 numbers
left
and
right
I have no home but I keep pressing 7.

Recycling Confessions

I,

in the first person
float
and swirl
with heavy polluted gusts,

I’m,

punched
and kicked
walked over
and on
and left for dead
torn
and battered
plastic doesn’t bruise
but,

I,

continually survive
on many lonely neon nights,

I’m,

a modern day urban tumbleweed
drifting
like so many
past American hobos on trains of steel,

I’m,

what you wish you
could be
what you wish you
could have
freedom
true solitary freedom
non-biodegradable
for a thousand years,

I’ll,

outlast you
and all that resemble you,

I,

probably pass you
and your kind
a thousand times a day
but,

I,

say nothing
the only words,

I,

speak
on those many lonely neon nights
“THANK YOU”
stamped
proudly on my chest.

The Gypsy Padlock Doctrine

I received a message at 8:43 p.m. Eastern Standard Time,

she says hi
three minutes later she asks me what I’m doing
there is no answer on the other end,

I received a message at 9:12 p.m. Eastern Standard Time,

she asks me why I’m avoiding her
she asks me if we’re still friends
there is no answer on the other end,

I received a message at 9:44 p.m. Eastern Standard Time,

she asks me what’s wrong
she once again asks me why I’m avoiding her
she asks what she did wrong
there is no answer on the other end,

I received a message at 10:17 p.m. Eastern Standard Time,

she calls me a fucking asshole
she says that she regrets ever having sex with me
she says it ruined our friendship
there is no answer on the other end,

I was taking a nap and didn’t wake up until 11:28 Eastern Standard Time,

I took a sip of coffee and scratched my back
I lit a light flavored cigarette
I saw her messages
even though she was acting a little psychotic I say hi
there was no answer on the other end.

Algerian Nausea Hotel Room Blues

hell is modern society
and
myself
Sartre
you French fucking dead prick,

bright rooms
dimly lit hallways
of neuroticism and
the running of bulls and blood
red
demerits of past juvenile behavior
not much
has changed
pink slips and the occasional
depression of bullets
and your life
let’s talk about our feelings
lets not
the masses
only find God while in
the depths of despair
and isolation
praise Jesus
praise Valium
praise 12 steps to nowhere
and Kansas
vintage lighters
of past wars
between lovers and nations
acetaminophen 325 mg
aspirin 500 mg
caffeine 65 mg
all a growing boy needs
survival is 12 hours in length
facial scars reveal liars
and salesmen
isolations rooms without soft padding
or MTV
birthdays and weddings
sado-masochism and minor flesh wounds,

hell is modern society
and
myself
Sartre
you French fucking dead prick.