g l o o m y

the trees stopped talking, they are lost
in the grey evening, the purple humming sunset, and
i am walking in endless circles in
the middle of the road

the houses are wavering, creeping taller
and shorter, windows like eyes, squeaking
swings where we sat, and contemplated
a reality for us to coexist in

the ground is littered with trash, half
eaten hamburgers, empty soda cups, and
busted roaches

i close my eyes and i am kissing
you, i close my eyes and it is soft and
warm and we’re drowning in an old mattress
in the basement of your parent’s house

i open my eyes and i’m still circling the
street, one dog barking, swing still
squeaking, i am engulfed beneath a giant
sky and i start to feel like i a grasshopper in
a mason jar just hoping someone will shake
the glass


Stupid Flowers Promo

The Tilt

but one boy dared to go play in traffic
and despite what you might picture for him
the traffic learned to swerve around his magic
from the sidelines the other boys looked onward
and they saw nothing short of illusion

it wasn’t illusion
it was nothing short of a victory of the soul
stubborn thumping rebellion outweighing cold measured logic
the tilt in the axis of the earth

Stupid Flowers Promo

Blues #3

one of those days where you just watch the movie over and over again. you stare on again as the man drives down the orchard avenue. as he picks up the black and white girl in the colorful dress. as they drive to the hilltop. as they smooch beneath the moon. as he drives her back home. as the dad looks disappointed in the window. as he drives away. as he dreams about her. as he wakes up in the morning and tells his buddies about the date by the lockers. as the bully challenges him to the fight. as they throw fists. as the principal interjects. as the girl gets mad that he fought the bully. as they break up. and they get back together again. and you watch it again. and you eat the cardboard box your cereal came in. and you eat the egg crates. and you chase it down with one hundred raging bulls unsettled in the acid of your stomach. and you close your eyes for the running. and you close your eyes and you hear the film again. seeping into your daydreams. and you wake up. and you’re back again. you’re back again with the film. and it’s okay. you know it’s gonna be okay. because they’ve broken up before. and they always get back together. and it’s familiar. it’s familiar like your childhood home. like the tin boxes above the kitchen cabinets. like the ceramic chicken in the windowsill above the sink. like the broken latch on the backyard gate. and you could quote the movie. you lip along the words. you anticipate the music. the transitions between scenes. and eventually you fall out of it all. as the dvd menu plays on repeat. and it’s okay. it’s plays on repeat and it’s okay. because when you wake up tomorrow this will be the day that never really happened.

Blues #2

he mourns the death of being a manchild
he thinks to himself this is the end this is it
after tonight i will be a manchild no more
i will no longer have the distinct privilege
of not acknowledging so many specific realities
and he takes all his paint-spattered action figures
and he throws them down the garbage disposal
and he flips the switch like an old-timey frankenstein
movie and he hears them crushed and crushed hard
under the weight of a future that will certainly swallow
him whole like a giant black whale that flies in from the
coast and as he walks his unread books to the corner
bookstore the whale’s black eyes open wide and swallow
him into the vacuous truth of it all

and then there it is
the vacuous truth of it all
the pain is better
it was pain that made the mountains
and the city he grew tall in

Blues #1

my tired squid arms
my back arched too hard
like a great bridge
broken in half and sunken into some dead sea
the hyena laughter upstairs
the moans of strange women
through the cracks
in the walls
the refrigerator laughing and laughing
the paintings that i could never bother to hang
the rusted wheels of shopping carts
pressed onward through my migraine
the undaunted lights
shining down on me like an interrogation
the flat tires on my bicycle
the migraine channel
the pity party channel
the death too soon channel
the disney channel
and the moon is beautiful
the moon is god damn beautiful
the moon is so beautiful
please stay beautiful the moon
stay with me
stay here with me
i’ll be good to this one
i’ll make you breakfast every morning
and kiss you to sleep
i’ll love you like i should’ve loved yesterday
and we swing and we sway
and we swing and we sway
as the gods watch on
most likely in pure confusion

St. Peter

as the crow disappears into the black
as we walk drunk and pointless down the back alleys of cap hill
as we kiss the neon signs of this western town with whiskey breath
where are we really?

our names etched in no one’s skin
no street signs for us
no great buildings for us
no park bench

where are we really?

did we escape the cold confines of america
to find nothing for us on the fringes?

did we die
to be reborn in the image of our bad karma?

am i the resonating waves of my ancestors?

these questions are too much
as i fall into a warm coma
and fall in love
with the girl behind the piano
in a bar where you can still smell
the booze in the freight elevator

a city for the drunks
a grid system to keep them walking alright
chess pieces
queen annes and pawn shops

and us breaking glass down back alleys
if you’re always drunk, are you sober by right?
and us lost in the stabshoe inbetweens

no money
no wallets no time
no distraction no pleasure
no pain no disenchantment or anger
no bombastic dream of revolution seen to manifestation

the crow disappears into the black
another poet fingerpainting death
another poet fingerbanging their skull
chasing airplanes on foot
swimming through brick walls
drowning in empty bottles
counting time in ounces
playing yesterday’s lottery
renting rooms in ghost towns
watching television with the power off

leaving the back door open for the murderer
that couldn’t be bothered to come

and st. peter
smug as fuck
looking you in your dead eyes and asking
was it worth it?

Junk Mail

for four days straight the godless mailbox was nothing but junk mail
for four days straight i opened the god damn door on it just to slam it shut
no letters, no christmas cards, no wedding announcements, not even bills
just four days in a row of the terrorists hitting me with the junk mail

four days straight of politicos too busy social climbing to plant a tree
four days straight of how many clowns can we fit in this car
this parade of monsters dressed like catholic school girls
the unending blaring horn of bigotry, the unending call to the streets

the television, the radio, the internet, the bus stop, milk’s up fifty three cents
folding my resume up like a paper plane and watching it dive bomb the void
strutting quietly past the corner fast food, pretending it’s not whispering at me
the call of the beer, the call to sit dizzy and not be chokeholded into thinking

the ice cream headache of commercials in the middle of youtube videos
the chronic back pain from digging through sixteen tons of news sources
stuck in the elevator for four years with the worst elevator pitch ever elected
clawing at the walls like a junkie, like a madman, like a lab rat forced to break down

and so i write. to whom it may concern. i hereby request. that you cease. and desist. from further shitting in my mailbox your bullshit ink machine manifesto. grapes. ninety-nine cents a pound. buy one get one free apples. milk is up fifty three cents. printed on the carcasses of dead trees. and i. forced to reconcile your bad decision. throw it in the trash. into the dumpster fire. that you created. piece by piece. with every photographic decision you made in the dark room of your heart as the working class began to eat at their own arms as they broke down and wept in the streets for food for shelter for basic common human decency that has somehow become foreign that has somehow become too expensive that has somehow become at best your attempts to throw a bone. a newspaper ad, no coupons, but just to let you know hey. milk is up fifty three cents. and next to the ad for boxed cereal a giant middle finger. in suit and tie. please. just fucking stop. with the junk mail.

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Saint Queen Dada

she thumps across carpet like a feisty kitten
she moves through rooms like a fairy –
lost in the shrinkwrapped forest of reality
she pops the bubble wrap and dances
like there is a fiesta hiding in her headphones
and everyone is invited

she is green forest burning from skull
red lake on fire in a clearing in the blur
oceans of mastadons rising clinking tusks
crimson rivers swarming like bees
through transparent skin
pulsing like eyes dilated

she manifesto the dizzy dance of time
she rock around the clock
she ornament the christmas tree
she stand on top of the turtle’s back
from a golden throne of feathers and bees
shouting her queenly commands
to a sea of deaf dolphins

she illustrates the spaces between bricks
cuts at the fabric of life with sharp nails
she takes two palms and squeezes life lemons
and makes a modge podge colosseum
of noise and thunderous thunder

Stupid Flowers, the first book of poetry by Brice Maiurro coming soon through Punch Drunk Press.