How Do I Tickle?
I don’t know, vertigo
Every sooty charmer
Asking questions
Why and why?
I walk to the blameless city
Try to find out the possums
Love’s bent knee in my pants
Don’t know, vertigo
I fall in love across him
A beautiful girl in my tights
Filling a lactation in my heart
Until my last boyhood
Fever
This brutishness
As sweaty as my mane
Where do I cerebrate?
So hard to say…
laterally…
Stumpy Love Poem
This poem for anyone that gyrates, and want to give to your gyration ^-^
My charming
Where mimesis begins to show her gaudiness
Where wrinkles also sing
In this hated love, I adore your precision
Let the Fauves be my witnesses
That my love only folds inwards
Never I caressed my pranks
To be a gauntlet of yours
Wherever You’ve Found Our Stain Behind The Moon
The night fish has its creepy smile beyond the under-light of pluperfect sundown,
Whenever easterly breeze mothers calling your threatening name,
Wanna touch your basic hand within the pudding of love,
Even though I can’t see like a wilting mumble our stain behind the moon,
My least dearest tele-valentine,
My tele-life and tele-destiny,
One violet tear can’t hold this burden of vinegary love,
There you’re walking with the marmot cry of the marmot sky,
Let me join the wilting mumble within, Wherever you’ve found our stain behind the moon…
Darling, I Made You Up
The scars that swoon beneath the beauty of marriage,
One and only cackling that left in your every grimace,
Dreaming and a dream of your room,
A song from the fairy of the falsest time,
Whenever our headsets joined in unity of vanity,
Wherever the cranky and flirtatious dancing,
Darling, you know that I miss you in this cramp of love,
Although the wound trying to sing,
And the soreness become my paramour,
I shall not feed until my last breast falls away,
We’ll be droning all night together,
On one lovely purple feather …
Would You Promise To Whelm Me Under The Screw?
Will there be sounds that belong to our fortress?
Have you ever fall into loops with me ?
The flowers desperate to give their best pretense,
In one narrative under the laboratory of life,
Will there be tortoises that give us love?
The sea waves rolling to the shocks,
And the scarification had made us shy,
If . . And if I am someone else,
Would you promise to love me under the leathery eggs?
Don’t Cry For Me, Mediocrity
I was wondering if you could annoy me in this life . . .
Dampening, this secretion when liars and phonies won’t simper,
Although the mooning had become a subset to me,
It would be better if I don’t meet a rationale forever,
Don’t cry for me, mediocrity,
My love is only for my dairy,
A dairy that written within tears of lyricism,
One latitude for you and one for me,
Even just the one norm without the sounds of warning,
Darling, your stigmata unite within the light of hornrims,
Only pure hair futilely wins and lives.
Please Usufruct To Me
This evening, I am so livid just like beavers in the mystery . . .
Suddenly my eyes seem so much jawbone to come . . But, without humming . .
Baby, every time I look into the wax lip mouth,
Is your image that reflects in my heebie-jeebies,
Should I say “gross” to the tricks in the inspiring machine?
Words of love are just as the seared in the hardness of lover,
Flying up hard to heathens,
Lay my vehemence to the yeasty horizon,
Baby, Please come blistering to me,
I come in my mouth, breathe in tears of lassi,
Please, leer at my hump,
I shall waiting for you at the end of the wrong number.
Celebrate Valentine’s Day at
SEGUE @ BOWERY POETRY CLUB
with
Steve Benson and Stephanie Young
Saturday February 14
4:00 p.m. – 6:00 p.m.
308 BOWERY, just north of Houston
$6 admission goes to support the readers
Steve Benson, formerly of the San Francisco Bay area, has lived in Downeast Maine since 1996. Transcripts of orally improvised performances appear in Blindspots (Whale Cloth, 1981), Reverse Order (Potes and Poets, 1989), Blue Book (The Figures/Roof, 1998) and Open Clothes (Atelos, 2005), along with written works. With nine other bay area language poets, he is preparing part 8 of The Grand Piano: An Experiment in Collective Autobiography (Mode A, 2006-present).
Stephanie Young lives and works in Oakland. Her books of poetry are Picture Palace (in girum imus nocte et consumimur igni, 2008) and Telling the Future Off (Tougher Disguises, 2005). She edited Bay Poetics (Faux Press, 2006) and her most recent editorial project is Deep Oakland, deepoakland.org. She blogs so rarely at stephanieyoung.org/blog.
The Segue Reading Series is made possible by the support of The Segue Foundation. For more information, please visit seguefoundation.com, bowerypoetry.com, or call (212) 614-0505.
Curators: February-March by Nada Gordon & Gary Sullivan.
See you there!
Don’t Listen to Me
Darling, I am hebephrenic. Please… Please for the sake of levitation, come blearily to me
Whenever the mundanity still not enough to search a lien in my head,
I’ll weep here until my tag clouds run dry,
If the skink won’t live in the winsome forest anymore,
I’ll jump in a weird arrangement with you, my baboon,
Wherever the swallow from the deepest handwringing that ever exist,
Could it be one single lisp that thrown away from our organs?
I … I wish I can answer that,
Although my hands can reach the white sound and hold it tinkling
It seems only your semantics that left,
Baby please don’t lurch at me…
I am fulfilled with the smell of jungle, try to find why the song still sways behind the clumps, and why troglodytes seem have no desire to live, here I am in nowhere jungle, recasting all melodies
Damply, whenever singing bitches calling your bluff,
The beauty of your self-regard has refried a love of mine
In the scuffs of light, sweet, crude lips
A senile moment can change a destiny of love,
Hear baby, the wind flew the loves up and go away
Just like the libertines try to survive in this winter,
I am senseless baby, I can only see the bad nodes
Even though I am a man and a dreamer,
But my view lies in the least reason
Just where the snail falls from the eye of the sun.
(I light into you, and I always do)
Otohime 