I am not obscured Codex Justinianus to the border of my blood fjord –
abjure, curse, detest the void of prolactin in the alpha – he’s Lovecraft
in Brooklyn, he’s a pawnshop switchblade, I’m opening up to Philippides
on Thursdays. Westbound Train at the end of the week, home was five
nights in Croydon for failure while he swore oaths to the palace. Royalty
is celebrating a prince you never crowned, a father you never wanted.
Do you have film of a good home? Or is your hippocampus trauma-
averse? He’s Lovecraft in Brooklyn, I’m love lost in consanguinity
– Aaron Kent
Film of a good home is Godzilla in Red Shoes,
Mr Bleaney with a bazooka.
It’s been so bad I paid Trump to kiss me;
I rescind most of what I prevaricate;
And self-loathing is just fear spelled backwards
As reefer, bad spelling, bad times
In the High school. Was beaten reputedly
By a squirrel killer named Darryl
And his other brother named Squirrel;
I kissed a girl, perhaps, or was that a priest?
Forgive my father; his belt was as good
As his bite. Wonderful gentleness
In the midst of violent loss of sense;
Poetry is an outflowing of calm required
To equilibrium the Storm-und-daring gang.
1933, not so good a year. 1934, worse.
Don’t bet on the SA when the SS is around.
So too, the schoolyard bullies had their run
Of the lot. Rape was a common concern
And the local pool teacher was speedo averse;
He liked us clean and in the raw. I shivered
At the touch of too many moguls, on casting
Couches. Age ten, auditioning in Montreal.
At least my father Ramboed them to trees
With bowie knives. It was a lot of boo-hoo-hoo
And blood in the bowels; to be honest.
Film is a gun and a girl, a crime and a cry.
Frames per second never tell truth –
Truths are between the frames; just as
The worst of the days was between classes;
When the bell rang, we sat like princesses
And bell-hops, prim and propped. The bloodletting
Stopped, okay, in the presence of the cane.
– Todd Swift