you guys should go to the write bloody page on Facebook today and take a look at the last thing d.brown posted and then put some positive vibes in the correct direction. It’s not posted on the tumblr page so I am directing you there.
She, a strange landlord,
pointed to her chest and said
‘If you lived here
you’d be home by now.’
I, the stranger with no deposit,
pointed to my chest and said
‘If you lived here
you would have to be
I think of her smart hips
and the days left before their unhinging.
Our love was redder than the eyes of McCarthy.
Our love was blacklisted and strong.
Our love was a brawl in the street
with spectacles on.
Eyes of bayonet knives,
and the nunchakus of my mouth
which I tried to use with great aplomb and theatrical flash
but always ended up knocking myself unconscious.
'No, you don't look fat in that dress.
Yes, that sentence does assume you look
fat in some dresses.’
Kapow. Right in the face.
This love remains a tongueless boy
in a basement
that you snuck graham crackers to.
He loved to see the glaze
of your hammer-and-nail-polish.
You kept him alive.
He paid you with a finger every time you arrived:
One to clean your elfish ear.
to check your pulse.
an unbreakable Boy Scout oath.
so you could rest each one
of his loose fingers in between yours
like couples do when they stroll
through shitty carnivals.
When we first met
she told me of the brilliant in Israel
and the erotic vision of the cynic.
I tried to turn her on by talking to her about
She kept hunting for a metaphor.
I was actually just talking about skinning animals.
Now I can’t stop thinking of how our baby would look in a perm
with a massive elk for eyebrows
and then in comes the Tel Aviv
of her mouth of my dirty neck.’
Our mouths building a jangly, red swamp
they will call weirdo Louisiana.
This kiss spills her silent resume:
She is the poster child
for the Willy Wonka suicide camp.
Her stomach is a summer full
of black ice-cream-truck hijackings.
Her eyes are highway fatalities
you can’t stop staring at.
Her skin is rehab for sandpaper junkies.
She is my landlord
and she lowers the rent,
points to her chest and says,
“Looking at each other like surgeons,
daring the other to go first,
I finally asked how long
she thought it would last.
She said it didn’t matter how long,
it just mattered that it was.”—Derrick Brown (via loverofstories)
I want the action and the grit
and the blood inside your lips
a knife to the throat of the poetry you know
It sounds like:
a burglar breathing on your neck
stealing scenery while you sleep
and only the ugly beauty he keeps
humming birds with broken arms
a police photo album of the suicidal
breaking into heaven
a superhero with cancer
boys streetfighting for the feathers of dead doves
a magazine where all the models
advertise only things that will kill you
its time to let you in on the action
this is for the hearts that sweat
for a different kind of muddy,
overscarred, honest beauty
honesty is never lost in translation
words were our wings…
now let them be rifles.
”— Derrick Brown, “A Kick in the Chest” (via girl0nfire)
“Derrick Brown runs an influential tree house with his brothers Donnie Darko, Napolean Dynamite and the makers of jet fuel. They hide out in warm socks between thick white blizzard breaths and choir claps, preserving every smile anyone ever took away from you. They sling-shoot Yes bullets at girls (girls are allowed) and dreamers. If Derrick ever grew a mustache he would get away with it. He’s that cool. There are definitely some of his old works slipped into this collection which expose Brown’s writing weaknesses, but his consistent lengths of genius easily outweigh the momentary lapses of reason. “Born in the Year of the Butterfly Knife” is among the top three books of poetry by a performance poet I have ever read. It may be the best.”—Buddy Wakefield
“…Rise above the grief bait and sugars of sorrow.
Spin searing gold from all that copper noise.
You are better than the demons whispering in your cheeks.
The floors of self doubt are weak.
Do not fall where the heavy have fallen.
Lift us into your belief, let it blast.
Let it be a bloodbath
with your innards on the floor,
Welcome yourself to ugly glory, you.
This is not typical church.
We will not yell
about sin and hell
for that picture doesn’t work anymore
for those who have worked on factory floors.
We welcome you new crawling psalms,
you drunk choirs
you gouged melodies
you nasty bags of glowing mercy.
We welcome those with unpaid bone tariffs
those raised by the missing
those boys who got lost in the eyes of another boy
those who loved the cities that hated them
those who kept putting on their gloves for boxing the
those who couldn’t scratch their golden tickets because
were ground down from clawing their own way out of
their father’s casket
those who couldn’t get skinny enough to get to the front
of the line
those who couldn’t stand anymore so they built splints out
out of their own words,
Depth charges, yes!
The choir charging the audience with tambourines in their
Kick me when I’m up, yes!
Hallelujah, we are fucked! Yes!”—Derrick Brown
Howdy poetry people. Hold onto your butts because today we are officially announcing our upcoming Big Ass New York Showcase. We’ll be taking over the Bowery Poetry Club on September 16th, presenting readings from some of your favorite Write Bloody authors including our captain DERRICK BROWN, the amazing CRISTIN O’KEEFE APTOWICZ, Taylor Mali, Sarah Kay, Jeremy Radin, Jon Sands, Megan Falley and Aaron Samuels.
Hey kiddos, check out our captain Derrick Brown as today’s FEATURED POET on IndieFeed. Make sure to click on the little “pod” doo-dad and then prepare yourself for some sweet sounds—Derrick’s poem “The Ruined Life” and then an interview between him and one of our all-time favorite ladies, Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz. You’re welcome ya’ll.
Sending you all of our imperfect affection and requesting that you enjoy a boozy poetry-fueled Friday.
(Click on that face and you’ll get where you need to go. Guaranteed.)
“I think of her smart hips and the days left
before their unhinging.
our love was redder than the eyes of Macarthur,
our love was blacklisted and strong.
our love was a brawl in the street with spectacles on —
eyes of butterfly knives, brass knuckle sex,
and the nunchucks of my mouth
which I use
with great dramatic aplomb and theatrical flash
and always end up knocking myself unconscious”—Derrick C. Brown
Let the propane light from the barbecue glow the back of your hair into silhouette.
Put bicycle grease on your bedsprings. Let no one hear your love. Subtle your lust. Lash it to your spine and walk funny. Stand in front of the mirror with a camera waiting for the love of your life to show up. Drive to me. Scuttle your plans. Drive with the radio off. Drive like a Trucker that’s been face-punched. Peel your car out and shoot gravel back into the sky.
Don’t be Amsterdam, be Holland. I’ve never been to Spain. I’m asking you to remind me of it. Don’t just be tits, be all the tits, be wanted. Don’t puss out on love. Put some ice cream in the dead man’s float. You’re either someone’s dinner or you’re someone’s genius, either way doesn’t matter as long as you’re zizzing delicious. Allow me to be an ocean, allow me to freeze. I’m saying I can hold you up, even the waves retreat to make room for new ones. I need you to forget all endings that demand paradise. Your terror moves me. Your failures have whittled you fine. Scream into the road map until your lungs are transmission hot:
Dear Lord, is that all you’ve got?
Some giant in the sky pushes the head of night down into the sea and a crown of stars bubbles on up. Fizzle that way.
I am so alone I can only think about listing my name in the phonebook.
Every ambulance singing is singing for me.
When I am at the party I find myself alone and sweating like a minister who lies to his wife when he looks at her, who cannot hold up under the weight of the trust of an entire congregation.
I feel this when she is out in the night, pulled into that indigo magnet.
Soft loss chanting. You were not that beautiful. My league.
Listening to the shyness of snow. It falls as fast water and freezes into a float joining the mass ivory quilt.
I am part of that blanket of brothers and sisters, all of us listening to the best radio station for the unaccompanied. Those who have been outfucked, dissed by nature. We are warm as one.
I want to surge up from the mass like the wasted body of the mayfly, to take to the air for a moment, die in the sky with everyone dropping, their life, a short but sweet view down when you are done.
I see ravens mate. I see them penetrate each other’s blackness.
Come on, birds. I’m next.
I stare at the mother’s stomach in the grocery store. What a show off.
When I am alone and my skull is ripsaw I want to jump into the womb of any bonfire, I want to leap into the ceiling fan head first but I need that fan this coming summer.
Ooze to the couch, you filthy sludge.
The carcass of desire is on the couch with you, antlers and all. A photo of the love boat, scuttled, on the beach hangs above the mantle. The fireplace damped out by the refreshments of wanting easy love logic too much.
You can send someone love in first class mail and if they can’t accept it or wear it like perfect pajamas, it will return to you and sit on your porch all beaten up.
It will only get harder. Your heart will pass through them like a zephyr and the breezes of romance will swirl back to the tundra they came from.
Why fight to make love stay when the bell has rung and the blood races surrender from the broken nose? Who wants to fight for a concept when the towels are tossed?
Before it was over I wanted to send you a postcard that said: Don’t try and kill something that is too big to bury.
I feared losing you, not for the cost, but because I heard we become the things we have lost.
If you check out of the hospital early with the tubes dangling from your arm and the anesthesia of a new start … bubbling in purple veins you might miss a chance to heal properly.
Even if you are saved by the science you might get killed from the debt.
I am comforted by cats that cry out to me telling me she is not alone tonight. She is held and kissed by a man with beautiful long hair. You go for that kind when you miss your mother.
She is gleaming and laughed upon. She was a ruby moment.
You must hope she forgets your kiss.
You must let go of seeing her new beau as only a style, as something that fades.
He is where you were and you should be praying that he will never have to be where you are.
He and I, we don’t sing the same song but oh, how we play the same instrument.
How strange to love a song when you can’t recall the melody.
Hello, whoever it is who runs this blog. I was wondering if you could help me? I saw the quote "Before it was over I wanted to send you a postcard that said: Don’t try and kill something That is too big to bury." and I was wondering if you would happen to know which of Derrick's poems it was from? It's just that it really resonated with me. The internet is not turning up anything.
It’s from “Beauty Mark of the Beast at Beauty Mach Six” which is in Scandalabra. I’ll post the whole thing.
Two nine-year-old girls ran up to me when I was sitting in the airport, gave me kisses on my cheeks, sandwiched me and ran back to their parents.
I watched them giggle. They ‘got me’ and asked no questions. Awkwardly shaped girls giggle hard and red-faced.
They re-circulate the air in my plane and it is torture. Someone is wearing my lover’s old perfume and it hits me every three minutes. I ask the stewardess for playing cards, ginger ale and duct tape. I go to light up in the lavatory, tape up the doorjamb and imagine lighting up until my skin soaks up the smoke. People bang on the door staining their good breeches. Good. They don’t understand how your scent assassinates the day.
But your blasting-cap black-eyed romance your belladonna body your ineffable lust is nothing compared to the unforgettable rush of a coupla giggling nine-year-old girls.
Derrick C. Brown (from Born In the Year of the Butterfly Knife, 2004)
This isn’t Derrick Brown-related, but Buddy Wakefield has a tumblr now! Derrick and Buddy are friends and the latter is another incredible poet, so if you like you should follow him in case he starts posting poetry things!
“I know you are alone and soaking in it, like solitude is blood and the night is the letting. Your heart races with the pressure of everyone in the room finding a slow dance partner but you. Tap in. Tap the shoulder. Love is yours. Make the first move. Love is yours. Let it be its horrible self. Learn it. Our church is fully armed. Return to it with devotion. Your spirit is a ready gun. Load it yourself. Only fire it into the worthy. Rise above the grief bait and sugars of sorrow. Spin searing gold from all that copper noise. You are better than the demons whispering in your cheeks.”—Derrick C. Brown