Two poems by Lynn Oscar


Spork's Poetry
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Two poems by Lynn Oscar


Anti-you [2]

Thirty seconds before I rip you off the guy from the shop
is going to call & tell you there's some unexpecteds &
some unforeseens. That'll be my cue; I'm going to rip you off
after he tells you that you—you & all your friends—have
given too much to love, have felt too strongly & broken
one of the fins off the starter, loved with too much purpose,
ground first gear all to shit & glassed all the belts. Here, a
quick shell game: febrile, tensile, photograph. Got it? Okay,
photograph, tensile, febrile. Tensile, photograph, febrile.

My hands in your pockets & is that a pen in your pocket?*
The garage floor littered, no, strewn with your parts & I'm
counting down now, twenty & I sketch quick the seams I'm
going to split when you say wait, when you lie & say you never
start loving & he'll say Sure pal, nobody does, but the fact is you need
a whole new assembly.
Pick a hand: recombinant or soufflé. The zen
of fingers not hands but you put them stiff through your hair,
& I want to scream A hand, not a comb, put some fucking life into it!
I'm going to call the guy myself, tell him to cut your brakes.

*I didn't mean it, didn't mean to... & I'm not going to finish
that. Turn green & lip-curl, nose-tuck & I'll be a tough bastard.
Flattered, confused, you: chicken, brainstorm, fuck. Got it?
Okay: conflate, shoulder, mezzanine. Pick a hand: either one
gets you socked. What is the sound of one hand smashing
your nose? The sound of two hands? You won't even see it
coming & you'll say how the auto metaphor's got you kind
of suspicious, you're a little on edge & what do I think about
it? Tremor, sandwich, Acapulco. Acapulco sandwich tremor.


Am I the pretty one?

you on the floor & ass cold on my shin, this time it's me in pieces
for you & all out of concert & had I known it was going to be that
kind of night I wouldn't have had those last five drinks, those few
more hits in the studio, in the hall, in the bar & the girl saying
You're an asshole but she won't tell us her name & we keep asking
her what it was & her not telling. she alliterates, she says. she says
she alliterates & that's all she'll say. not worth it & we don't care
& now she wants to tell us but we're on our way out the door
& people keep saying my name & she just wishes they would stop.
the teacher on the street in San Francisco gone bass & stomping; two
minutes previous them pooling cash, arms out to hold the cab & me
saying No I don't want to fuck her, everyone saying Someone's got
to fuck her & why it's me I don't know: what, am I the pretty one?&
do they hate me?& I'm not the one with my mouth full of wax, that
wasn't me drinking the candles, not that night & anyway that was half
an hour before pooling the cash & five minutes after the candles we're out
back in the 10x10 with the ladder & the teacher's the only one with a chair
(when I said bass I meant fish) holding court, my cigarettes her scepters
for twelve minute tyrannies & we keep saying Don't encourage her she's
just a self-important sad little loser girl minus discernment & she'll
take the attention from where it comes but they encourage her & I say
again No I don't want to fuck her; say a word: decompose. [her stupid
fantasy unwritten & pull back & up & shoot from above & she at x0,y0
when 0 is top right; me rolling away x-5,y-5 straight & the others
they drip, drip off but unbound & we're all riding together but no one
is going the same way. & the teacher alone, decomposed, unbound] no;
here: a musical no music unscripted but sudden for a second the three
of us know our moves and we dance away from her. the girl who calls
me asshole makes me think all this. I want you
(in that one thing brings up another)                to refer to nothing.

c. then

& you demonic in your drive. you the smartest girl, phasing state
& out. misaligned: you mad ellipse & I call you Halley but Halley
Trunk, as in truncate as in shorter as in reference to periodicity on
a much smaller scale as in you're here again & O my god thank you.

Lynn "The Silencer" Oscar lives and writes in rural Delaware. He goes to work and then he opens the door and when they look to see who it is, he says "Vroom-vroom, motherfucker!" He works in a muffler shop. He thought it was funny at first, a thing for then, but now he's just fucking happy to have a job.