Five Poems

by Brett Stout

Screaming into the Vast Void behind the Drywall

spread
your cerebellum
for,

the blood singed
paper antler
fury and
the meaningless regret
afterwards
don’t fret
our mutual friends
the pictures are only on
Facebook
and Instagram,

spread
your occipital lobe
for,

stains from Hollywood
on laminated kitchen
counter tops
next to
dirty non-stick pans
filled with the remnants
of
Ramen noodles
h2o
metallic chicken
powdered packaging
turned to
atomic flavored
vintage dust particles,

spread
your temporal lobe
for,

the sharpening of preschool
pencils
dunce caps in the corner
and
the retribution of
non existent
charcoal erasers,

spread
your frontal lobe
for,

anemic late night sequels
of dyslexia and eating
disorders
books never read
and the
collection of dust
dissolving now under
disinfectant and bad lighting,

spread
your parietal lobe
for,

balance and physics
on a massacred rock
somewhere
off of Interstate
70
where
I ate three polluted oceans
and dumped one
Ivanka.

Neutral Conversations with Swiss Army Knives

Flashing,

silicone
under the skin and the freshly
marinated whitened teeth
cement leads to
lethargy
and the overthrowing
of the last Austrian crowns
revolting cavities and
the madcap
has now made me
broke and apathetic,

the
soft skepticism of
paupers and
haggard fingers
Mike Tyson
punches out
numbers and parsecs
the bouncing invisibility
of satellites and Southern Baptist
tent revivals,

the online casting calls
for faux pas
embryos and
obscure affairs
strange things are afoot
at the Circle K
and in Equilateral Guinea,

the soured Presidential inauguration
of frugal ignorance
the stupidity of orange and
the combing of the
receding hair line of
the Middle Ages,

crude oil prices in Mali
just irritated
the deranged serpents
as they reap bigoted crops
as
passive fingers sew
quilts and
inflamed globalization,

a Georgia
Six Flags
Tom peeping in nature
rides rollercoasters
into the endless void
why Tom?
why not anything
else like
hearsay or paradigm,

destitute paleontologists
rummage and catalog
keen trashcans
at a vacant
Greyhound bus station
In Flagstaff, Arizona
year 1979.

The Presorted and Delivered Lower Class

junk mail
and
an assortment of
other things,

address me
as anything
but
sir
or Mr. Stout
you miserable assholes,

the endless list of contempt
for:

Publisher’s Clearing House
Santee Power
Verizon Wireless
Chase Manhattan and
Grand Strand Regional Hospital,

to those,

bill collectors
third parties
corporations
unnamed
delay
the bill
another one
all of them
another day
another week
another month
another year
another decade
another century
until death do us part,

lost in the mail
thrown in the garbage
can gray in nature
outside of Dunkin’ Donuts
yesterday
a landfill in New Jersey
tomorrow
property of anyone
addressed to everyone
homeless
or
destitute
or
indigent

Sprawl-Mart greeters
paralegals
unwed mothers
paramedics
carpenters
and
crack babies
plumbers
CEO’s
truck drivers
and
Wall Street
hedge fund managers,

anyone,

please anyone,

but me
myself
and
I,

junk life
and
an assortment of other things.

Eating Fried Chicken and Spitting Teeth

clear your mind of intercourse
non-sexual
in nature,

just kidding it is,

pardon
my interruption
of
self-inflicted
deformities
contusions
abrasions
punctures
burns
lacerations,

and
self-inflicted destruction
cheap canned booze
hazy memories
public vandalism
and private masturbation,

the allure of soiled
counterculture razorblades
stale Cheeto’s
and black industrial strength
Dollar Tree
garbage bags found
underneath my couch,

wasting my life,

seconds
minutes
months
years
centuries
millennia
reading a phone
that costs $600
fucking dollars
yet
learn nothing,

take a walk into
the late night
mist and disappear
into the abyss
forever,

clear your mind of intercourse
sexual
in nature.

Submarine Lungs and the Irony of Paychecks

The revenge
of the
grilled
and
marinated
lung,

flesh filled
hands and arms
resting comfortably
on a vintage
machine of toil and
cheap labor,

the exposed plastic
PVC pipe
hanging with no
garden
in Babylon or
anywhere else
foreign invaders
not armies
just
acidic acid
of the genus order,

pour in abuse
exit out apathy
small white pills of
euphoria
filtered by large livers
and parasitic dirt
a vision
a haze
bums drinking Comet
and
non-alcoholic booze
could it be
Paris 1943
or
Atlanta 2008
the answer
doesn’t even matter
anymore,

wet clothes
spin
in unison cycles
black and white
tile floors
lay in wait
silently striking
the Chinese produced
rubber bottom soles
and the
green liquid
protected by Cujo,

the red
plastic cup
regurgitated neglect straight
from the heart
to you baby
there’s no
stopping it now
just deal with it
bent over
in fetal positioning
over and under
a faux porcelain chair
spit dripping
pay the price
of
admission and
and enjoy
the grand voyeur tour,

tips
are appreciated
though
not required,

the revenge
of the
grilled
and
marinated
lung.


Brett Stout is a 40-year-old writer and artist originally from Atlanta, GA. He is a high
school dropout and former construction worker turned college graduate and paramedic.
He writes now while mainly hung-over on white lined paper in a small cramped
apartment in Myrtle Beach, SC. He has published several novels of prose and poetry
including Lab Rat Manifesto, and has been featured in a vast range of various media
including Brown University and the University of California.

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