Three Poems


Julian T. Brolaski

what ys my anatomie
 
the glyph in ceremonye
or takes 1 (hermbug)
 
þt one is metamorphosd
inna fever (fervently) ones companions
 
from afar
glyph across tha distant globe
 
& how! (hallo) my circumstance
myn yt is
& non other
 
ffrosen seming herrabouts
surroundsound bilove
galyph in my attitude (tha brine)
 
was choking
welwet amnesiac
in tha hue & cry
 
hallow umbrage! and hallooo
transmagnified body!
 
—what ys hidden—
I will moan my song
on wham that yt ys on ylong

 
what is hidden in a circle
thirrby pronomounced odd
 
xe is my enemigma
& shall endure all my privlege
 
sconced hilt orrod dilf
you may check me tomorrow
 
one may has
or may not
constabulize thir wytness
 
must thump
like a wave
to keep on cumming
to whuch ich have ben
disallowd y wake
 
agaynst the dobble bote
      one es
alyve
 
the yellow tiles represent
a safety zone
 
one travelong to thir
erstwhal milieu
 
haggon paradimmatic
wan capitule as cd they
none of it scared me rilly
 
cabs to and fro the burrito joint
el farolito        mija-hijo
 
friends sharing a headphone
when they goes under the bay
 
when the punchingbag was rocked
I made us all to huddle in the doorway
 
ones body will eat of
      the sutures
 
when one has no need
of a prosthesis
 
one ynvents a grammatical gender
      (& haf done)
 
tromp loy ramshacklry
callin xem evrything but the child of god
 
fiddleback
batterd but unbowd
 
up shit creek
w/o a shirpa
 
so to raise a stub aloft
to my computer made of meat
 
 
 
 
babyperson
 
I’ve a thing for entitled urchins.
-Kate Colby, Unbecoming Behavior
 
the offal of gold
—perpetuity anon
                  —embraced in parts
tech support in tatters
 
dont want the ppl who
dont want you
the actual potato
who on and off are not even listening
tied on
in “peace”
succumbing to subpar meat
 
effit on the avnue
to “keep it lo”
xe calls xemself a “singersongwriter”
 
allalong awful // by shades
          “mercy”
as uttered by orbison
cherry cola to rhyme w/ l-l-l-lola
melodious offal, the kind of content you flip thru backward
          one harumphs
                  uneasily along
 
who to hold doors for
who to allow to hold
          doors for you
 
the way to be
a fool with a tool
who admit to not even listening
to thir own babyperson
 
going around adding –ess to nouns
“lion-ess
“poet-ess
 
thats such a load
so that the daffydill yawns back
the one who taught me grk is dead
you want to put them in your lap
 
 
 
 
a measure of perversion
 
My boo remains non-Googleable.
-Jen Scappettone, From Dame Quickly
 
the sky was lousy with lightning
a plea for a measure of perversion
fairly grabbed one
who louche, lurking about
discoverd ones ordinary among fellawes
 
to triumvirate the workaday icerink
    one was so impertinent as to produce a map
    without wearing a wig
    another was a wig emself
 
finally there were no more
gardens to repose in, and stories
was no longer louche in the french manner.
 
still they conduct themselves w/ resilient repose,
seeing how moribund a tack it were
to string stuff together like xmas necklaces
-but what wd emma do?
 
I never put much truck—on gesture—one reflects
on a declining lover most onerous
who signed the poison book and everything
where passionately one gazes
on the hops of VT
where grapes grow pommes among
and liberally the frown
dragonfly top dragonfly
n mumble their remains
teachers gossip, I’ve known worse
louses make beautiful deaths