Poetry Blog by Devon Brock

i'm truly sorry for this...

Saints go all stranded bad brained and damned

waving black flags for articles of faith

leaving me like a dead kennedy

with a naked raygun in my flipper

not much so my suicidal tendencies

to buzzcock my way to the stranglers

lair in a psychedelic fur as I clash

with some zero boys cockney rejects

angelic upstarts - those lurkers in

the undertones - X.

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To The Little Girl With Omelettes In Her Eyes

Oh, how you hide behind your dad's cyclist thighs.

Barely an eye and ringlets ginger, you cannot hide

your bobbling joy for a golden half moon

of ham and cheddar gently flipped and folded.

 

Well, little lady, I was having a rough time in the rush,

"weeded" as we say in the biz. But your shy blush

and your smooth freckled fingers reaching for the plate

in my sweat filled gl...

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The Sum of Endeavors

none on the line none

none on the stringer sweat-eyed

below the spillway on a low day

rust-hooking largemouth then

carbon bent ballistic round the dog-leg

behind a bent rock shocked

for a crawler-rigged jig and a jerk

slipping through snag wood

slipping reel and slipping mudshoe

box throwing sinker swivel bastard

yanks smoke from my lungs

a butt from my teeth

an...

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Stasis

Presence is a zero-sum game.

The inverse of onion water held - that tower

seen on the bluff miles hence,

will show its "class of '65"

in approach and passing ,

recede scallion in the rearview.

 

All that passes: calves upping ass-first,

drapes of dry corn husk on loose fences,

gag of manure spreading spring over -

that's the stink of money, honey;

shred flags of si...

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Falling

We were dropping

Bottles from a rooftop

 

Brick smeared across your shoulders

Windows all boa around your neck

Rust and yellow in a gaunt arabesque

 

But before the sidewalk shatter

Before the dull slap of labels

Heavy with glue and broken glass

 

There was that redolent pause

That was falling

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To The Guileless Rover

Grope eyeless in clover for pulse and white grubs.

Slam fists into roses for they will bud over,

red stripe and scab for your wresting.

 

Wade shoeless in the muck of your hardening.

Pound clay into cloud until arms fall

grotesque in your shaping.

 

Ram full into the brick of naught,

the stained jagged brow of thousands

who thought to topple the unbuilt.

 

There...

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Life and Hard Candy

Hard candy in a cheek cave

worn and wearing lasts longer

than chewed delights meant

to mouthbind the eater

in rapture and dumb thirst

for more evermore.

 

Hard candy in a cheek cave

provokes spit and hesistation

on a snap decision to bust it

down into a nerve still hard

and whole in each grain

shattered.

 

Hard candy in a cheek cave

makes me suck darkly...

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Some thoughts on the definitions of "Smudge" as per Merriam-Webster

Some blurry spot or streak

(a barrel of grace tapping my forehead -

The GSR of redemption)

 

An immaterial stain

(the spanked yellow splotch in the sheets

dabbed with soap in the morning)

 

An indistinct mass

(the transitive rebound slag stink-breathing over me)

 

A smoldering mass placed on the windward side as to protect from frost

(burning pillows behind the ...

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Shoeshine - Recalling the Lessons of My Father - In Memoriam

Stay out of the business. Shine

for quarters on corners, in barbershops.

Shine wherever you can. Just stay away

from the business, your father said.

Gave you a box to shine clean

outta Brooklyn.

 

Just the right schmear of Kiwi -

brown, oxblood, or black - let

it dry, Let it dry. A bit of banter,

a shuffle through the box for that

buff-worn camel hair beauty

of ...

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Migration On A Bad Day

Met her in the driveway, blue band-aid

on her thumb because the rush came strong

and razor.

 

I saw the Redstart in the apple blooms,

ticking orange to black: the migration was on

and northing.

 

She had a shit day borne on a twitching

crease of lip, because she couldn't stand the gruel

anymore.

 

He clung to a fist of last autumn's fruit

I was too damned laz...

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Rendering Dream Upon Waking #1

Head-butting breakers -

I couldn't enter the sea -

flung back on my back -

swallowed in sandfleas -

moon-haloed grin of David

drooling beach with ashes -

to ashes and gull grease -

white tendril tide yanks

left shoe loose and screaming -

tows it to foam - scrambling crabwise

- sand in my pants drags

me down down and my mouth fills

with urine - cigarette butts

...

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In The Valley of Your Bones

Bella nests in the valley of your bones,

tender slopes carved glacial by your hip,

she twitches and yelps into the glens

of your shoulders, the vales of your skull.

 

Where are you now? Perhaps dropping

one last martini before slapping into a hard

bed, the conference long and boring, I hope.

But, I, here, this dog, here, trace landscape

 

Your absence, our bed, a grea...

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The Insolence of Poisoned Ivy

The stench is rising, rising once more.

With no hand to husband these fields,

furrows, now bleach intolerant,

take to their long dormant seed,

revive a reviled germination -

its brute harvest, unduly denied.

 

In sanguine rain through sag wire,

clod dirt percolates acrid low lying

plumes flag-twisting and spun upon

indolent airs and a languid sun;

the gathering sho...

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The Monkey Trap of Suicide Hill

Hit it with a kick thirty

degree incline tenth a

mile straight line main line

straight cliff down riding

crouch on a fish board

no plate to grind stop

nylon flex and pumping

lip flapping road smear

blonde bangs eyes bleeding

wobbling wobbling

standing sine wave

interference grind wave

thirty mph see me ten

year old airborne

dive pavement eight

finger ja...

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She Calls It Sorrow

She put willow switches,

knotted bits of string and fear,

sharper corners of gumwrapper chain,

the long stuff of regret

into a pasteboard guitar case -

threw it in the trunk.

 

On Northerly Island,

she took one last look at the skyline,

mocked on Lake Michigan,

the stillborn wave

of a song no-one played,

then off on LSD

to hit the Skyway.

 

She hoped to...

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Walking Hopper - a prose poem

I was walking at the corner of Irving and Sheridan. Cabs, buses, cars bled with a scab of gray belch low in the gelid air. Above, a draught of light spilled out of the Redline, spilled lanky into the coffee of the night. It was then that I saw her, strobed in amber as the train banged itself taut and fleeing. I watched her decay velvet down the platform stairs. I stood gum on the sidewalk before t...

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The Sewage Comes From Within

Carving new creeks, nonchalant waters

wash out stern roads and trunk-fist

old bridges, the ditches robust with

bullhead, bluegill, perch and corn slag.

It ain't stopped raining for days.

 

Low towns sandbag but the sewage

comes from within. The mitigators

are scrubbing their palms for a fresh

carpet of greenbacks and backhanded

charlatans are rolling in from Kentucky.

...

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