Butchered Switch is proud to announce the beginning of a new feature here at the blog, serial poems. We found some of the material we’ve been receiving to long to be endured in one sitting, yet so good that not one bit is worth chucking. Thus, our hands tied, we kick off our new series by introducing this snazzy, daft, little two-parter, entitled
w H E R E W O L F
A free-wheeling exploration of consciousness, through consciousness bending poetic strategies of voice and utter context shift. In other words, it’s a bunch of hazy, crazy mumbo-gumbo buried at the heart of which is an empathetic (hopefully) confessional poem dealing with what I’ve been doing the last few days and this crazy movie I saw that you really should see.
We begin with a rapid introduction, moving from strangers to a deep mental intimacy. Then we go hallucinate a radical therapy commune at my house. The compounded Narrator begins trying to sell you something.
That’s that, commence the poem:
werewolf P E N N S Y L V A N I A
Take a belt of whisky.
say, these days will not come back
no matter how much sushi
er, then: this way.
I pull my eyes out, one at a time, the left then the right
their strings dangle and sway, (it is November, I am single, in
cabs. I have a backstory.
But I’m not coming to you like that, I’m coming to you as a performer.
I want you to be entertained and amazed at my eyes.
Each goose gobbles one. Begin fighting.
Jules is bigger, but sassafras younger.
They scream. The chickens scream.
All the birds are screaming
as we eat our icecreams.
( -Dec. 23rd, two years earlier)
Denny stands up, watch, runs through the fowl's midst,
scattering them, he caws
and gambols, fluffin his wings
He is going to go into a trance.
He falls into the air,
he hadn’t been there before because we weren’t
imaging him that way,
brrreath clouds, cigarettes cloud, Denny Denny, it’s ok
we’re all thinking of you, pushing you,
caring for you, you
eyes roll open, back and forth,
into his mouth,
becoming a baby,
a violent baby eating his own shit.
Cawing and cheeping,
we throwing our shit at him,
The turkeys respond with territorial gobbles.
Mouths full of mud,
The old man with his accordion,
He has become real, playing a ditty.
-This is one of the things we do here on the compound,
Once a week or month.
Are you kidding? We’ve got plenty of money.
We sell hand typed scrolls of primo-poetry, for fourty a pop,
they come as a surprise in a sealed tube.
Purchasers must designate a theme or bits of language, but
I’m getting off topic, you don’t care for money,
I can see that.
But have you ever unleashed the baby you?
-- Don’t knock it til you’ve tried.
* * *
Stay tuned and riveted for the next installment, the thrrrilling conclusion of Werewolf Pa