Three Poems
By Zach Buscher
i feel cops
dr. complex casts a clean net
return business is up
scaly vandals not
withstanding the landlord
or his monochrome cronies
in ball-busting blue
and i'm bacchanalia busy
on payday barking orders like
park across the street
to some vacillating surfer asshole
while i dodge amateur lepidopterists
looking to pin me
mr. monarch butterfly
down for my own loss of imminence
Song of Experience
After the break-up
with E, I have no excuse
for all this dancing like a prick.
Destination stiff. Pose. Keep
your cave-dwelling locks
off mine Mancunian face . Your
fist from my rainbow binkie.
the one where we go dutch
for liz bougatsos
when boasting trampled time
entertain me, please. this human
dumpster goes deeper than it seems
and sportier, it's parasailing, it's
a strait or narrow drop splash
into the indian ocean mcdonald's
cashier enshrouded in sacred cow.
we plunk-a-dunk so mother
ocean can masticate. that's life
in a conch shell and there are
three ulcers for only two of us.
have you read moby dick? well,
we're in the same boat, condition
not melvillean not kafkaesque,
just straight suck. what's that?
a phantom hand come to spirit us
away like long-lost uncle rich.
shit's getting dickensian, a stiff tip
which taints the food, via pittance
inspired by pittance.