Three poems by Zach Buscher


Spork's Poetry
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Three poems by Zach Buscher


my manners forgive me


as serf to the titular word's
blazer slavishly clasps

blasted teeth for button gum
lining threadbare park benches

some folks can't hold fork
with any burnt spoon dexterity

born with two left feet
& siamese twin's the reason my

name's enough for two ma'am
cheek kiss for the other patronage

her son and me we played games
smoked shit-loads of tile in fact

i'm holding court right now
in an eastern villager's playpen

shot them western boys with yogurt
spitters and spades for hearts


lost cause at the nursery my mother made me
a bed of overdue christmas cards and friends

naked as the toronto blue jays
found the sweet spot necking in the locker room

you swing a bat in this city and break shit
the black market butter meant to shock you

how broken glass juts add a nice touch
of wonderment i shook a snow globe

a genie came out and asked me what
the fuck i was petting in the empty street

cry unrape you might be more deserving
than that blue-balled genie sucking cock

sucking the afternoon's cock and asking
for seconds three wishes of clotted cream i'm

just a poor boy from the masshole of the earth
i know not what i do


he reminded me of a coker the way his lines grew longer by the hour
i am not immune to gimmickry i hawk gimcracks in the dark alley

at noon offer myself to the pup-approved puss of the rosebush
why so many dicks and only minimal vagi in this scene

of midnight the dance floor loosens its lipid caverns
takes body shots from the ass of my chin

i apologize for vomiting on the pretty girls because their hair is ruined
i recommend a cheap place to get did and a hair and nail salon also

they don't like my looks
pulling the wishbone of skinny jeans to parse the blood out

whatever you have tight pants too
your personal hygienist should get a new job he sucks


only children

i am not a ginger boy in a soda bread house
no more
not a fly in her matzoh ball soup sharing jewesses with
you i am a snazzy dresser taking the piss
hick-eyed in borrowed shit kickers treading the course
disc-length from jail county
planning escape routes through woods we knew
not as boys but of more late
fall days and the mode i coaxed the kindred
spirit outta me with a pair of wobbly arms that didn't
quite huck right yet try and still do
things think might please you that's the way
i was raised to please anyone but myself, i'm only
christ, you're only too


Your Carriage, Miss

Her inner space impresses.

Trefoil fog on the prophylactic snack pack.

Truly love's tempera is a shade of scrambled dome.

Chained to the sleeping car.

To keep the fetal alcoholic inside her curled.

For myself.

Filch a finger of yak from the dining cart.

Effleurage her scalp with crème de crack.

Construct some semblance of moral.

From a dead baby joke.

Inside a dead baby.

The saddest matryoshka I ever did see.


Zach Buscher is a man with a website.