new gear

(Brad Liening)

 

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No-man’s Land

Dirty becomings dot the no-man’s land.
The land of the dead the next one over
Full of fetching actualizations.
God decides to live on a boat.

For several days I watch the sun set.
I decide to ask a favor.
Men with bird’s heads appear at the window.
I hold my interdimensional horses.

Several fathers bob in the waters
And watch the grungy sun
But a video diary of falling birds is the new
Penultimate becoming.

God watches from a distant window
And appears to ask a favor.
The days favor the waters for hours.
I decide to spend the rest of my life.

 

 

Sux

Rifles nose through the top-down storm.
Lucky for blood
It sprays against the white door.

It’s an unknown number of miles long.
It’s a pop-eyed monolith
Bent on executing visionary directives.

People lie down at its base and dream of oysters,
Hints of salt and brine,
Perfect composition.

Idle talk gives rise
To something that looks like the world’s first
Weaponized philharmonic.

 

  

Low-lands

Contractual swag piles up under multinational gauze.
Judging by the drowning we’re one product away
From final irrelevance.

O how meaning flees
Is the subject of my unfinished dissertation.
In the meantime, the meantime.

I drink and die. I wave away.
Candidates caterwaul a sleepless calling and lie
Down in prepared niches

Packing the primetime anomie.
Despair is emailed around the globe.
A gift bag is made in the image of starvation.

 

 

Terms of Art

Oneiric banalities dapple my rental.
It’s never-ending spring on the server farm
Where furtive wiz-kids grow inflated.

Gossipy dilettantes and occasional perversions of justice
Nullify revisionist histories
Under the ecstatic cherry tree.

The aesthetic datastream
Comes into contact with political entreaties.
Language parades are born.

I never said I wasn’t a worm
Bound for commodified torture.
Autocorrect transforms my terror in a moony goof.

 

 

Brad Liening is the author of Death Salad (available from gobbet press). Recent poems have appeared in Hotel Amerika and Inpatient Press. He lives in Minneapolis.

 

At the edge of a great snowfield Louie Otesanek grew different shapes and shades. His palms are wide and dark and mingled with the highest sky. See more of his work here.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

3 Responses to new gear

  1. Raymond Farr says:

    Philip, terrific poetry! Again!

  2. fez says:

    They’re so grand

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