South Broadway Ghost Society

full moon in virgo

Friends,

If you’re wondering what I’m up to these days, I am running a literary photography journal at South Broadway Ghost Society

Thank you for years of patronage to Flashlight City Blues. Come see me there or shoot me an email: bricemaiurro@gmail.com.

Much love,
Brice

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CLOPENING

Me Bathtub

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

there is no sun and there is no moon
just the light of a thousand stars condensed
into one giant phallic beam
that illuminates the grassless carpet
and the songless day
and the songless night
and the wake up get dressed head out the door
and the get home take your hat off masturbate
and go to bed

rinse and repeat
in the situation that you find
in the situation that you find
that you are trapped on a feedback loop
(feedback loop)
and you cannot exit the zenless circle
squeaky hamster wheel
in the situation that you find
water cooler conversation
sit and please remain seated
and face the faceless electric void
the empty fanatical empire of garbage
and type
at a minimum speed
and type
at a minimum speed
(feedback loop)
of sixty words per minute

and wait
just you wait
for that coming morning
when you open one eye
afraid to hear an alarm screaming in your ear
but it’s not there
it’s just you and bed and sun and life
and day off and breakfast in the aFternoon
and conversation over steam in the late late evenings
that turn into mornings
boiling with smiling regret
boiling with smiling regret
and a sweet little mason jar
waiting for you on your doorstep
filled with sweet, sexy freedom
yep

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “POEM FOR A LOVER IN MY FUTURE”

elevator music.

Image

We made out in an elevator for seventy two hours straight and it took us until 48 hours in to realize that the elevator had broken down. I spoke orange juice and you spoke gasoline in a diet cola world and surprise, surprise we made napalm. We made intricate solar vibrations of trash can drums beating in your empty room of a womb. Feminine claw against masculine skin. Angel dust and devil’s food cake and grandstand bandstand orchestral chords of symphonic orgasms splayed out across the starry night paint smeared and transient as oceans in wind. You throat punched me in the heart. You brilliant manifesto of bitch. You beautiful garbage disposal of fantasia. You sickening amount of whiskey spins and vodka breath and then existential hangover. And then the hangover from the hangover. And then the awkward silence. And then we’re sitting on separate hills looking out at different reality mountains and then the elevator doors opened and we got out.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

TWILIGHT IN THE WORLD OF BALLOONS

PHOTO COURTESY OF ANTHONY LUEBBERT

and the earth
feels as old as
dirt again

the violins
still mimicking the crickets
and not
the other
way around

the sky is the canvas
we will inject
kandinskily
with the raging crayola
120 pack of color-lustful-majesty

we burn with love
floating amongst the
cosmos

we are as illuminated
as we are
in love
as we are
slightly drunk – only
slightly

out here with the distant
stars
levitating in baskets
crushing
the blurs of
people like ants
with our
blinking
eyes

we distance ourselves

and holding our

breaths

we look at the
world
through the glass
cover above its
brushstrokes

and in the hangover
we descend
flickering flames
rejoining the torch of
humanity

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

PHOTO COURTESY OF ANTHONY LUEBBERT: http://www.anthonyluebbert.info/http://www.monkfishjowls.com/

READ “WHEN I WAS MAYBE TWELVE YEARS OLD”