Two Poems by Drew Kalbach

THE BOY IS LEWD

I had to live to eat face
in cereal, formed in gif, blank stares and strafes,
shuttle launched in miniature, minor fifth time you heaved,
eat fence between the smell
in open trashcan, in greased out burner tops
smoking heavy with skin
and teeth, my teeth chapped, teeth
cut out and carved
to resemble smiles, flashes
of cell phone cameras all across this crowd,
the heave renewed at lectures
for the balding, dead skinned and peeling,
handcuffed to sackcloth and stripped
down to skivvies, I’m heaved
toward harnesses and tied down to posts,
lovely in lopsided inked skin, ribs all a-flutter
while you whine about a funeral.

I’ve digitally misrepresented myself.
Crack into my metadata and sieve
through errors and overwritten drives,
my self coded, traded,
made public and chastised with reblogs.

Outdistanced force fields
some playboys signify new bodies, furnish
muscles with pink, skin
with thin scars. The walls hold back
air and won’t let our lungs mingle in the interim.
These new bodies now plastic
and hung to dry,
alive and always groaning
about cell reception in a bunker
or water pressure down south.
I press lips to glass and blow until puffed and bloated.
Pan seared then steamed, lungs
golden-brown. I have miles to go before I’m chic.


WHOEVER WANTS TO SERVE THEMSELVES
CAN GO AND DRINK FROM THE SEA

Dunk face and breathe deep, you defecator, bring salt
through the spongy walls of your lungs
and into your blood, let the water seep into skin
until it turns to white and wrinkles from bone.
I have seen photographs, blurred stooped shoulders, rounded
onto monitors, I took them through walls
into wires, the same waves which reflect from tinfoil hats are the waves
which bring your prostrate form into my masturbation room.
From foamy rings, your tongue laps around the sweaty regions
between toes, your tongue lolls
in ways I can’t remember, it projects
salivary measures onto my burial plot and makes mourners grow nude.
My ghostly gangrene wails ever after, stuck
in mute buttons on cell phones, the fuck-you buttons,
the buttons which you dick around with to make grit lodge between my teeth
and my freshly wooded dentures. Drink fast and engorge
soft tissues, engorge musky data points,
swallow and watch haunches dip low and groan
under the weight of my possession, my bald spirit humming
with spittle, until you have given up on living without my logged body,
given up on broadcasting, on stretched out hole-filled legs,
on my skinny corpse getting sexier with age.


Profile: Drew Kalbach

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