Three Poems
by Damon Hubbs
A Wall of Noise at Vassar, ’89
We eat psychocandy and gaze at our shoes
long before you disappear to study British Romanticism
everyone incendiary with Frank O’Hara, us too
like a snake wrapped around an axe in Côte Basque
we put arms beyond use, fuse damage and joy
a wall of noise at Vassar in ’89 makes our teardrops explode
we’re lost children on the move
we’re lost children head-on in love.
They bring soft axes to a summer picnic
dream of unpicking stitches of the galactic curtain.
Break it and take it until the goulash goes cold
like pigeons tearing a hole for the first crack of light
they have orange shirts with old-fashioned borders
but the sentry doesn’t shoot.
Lorca plays guitar and the sentry doesn’t shoot.
Everyone is on the move, head-on in love.
Fantastic Garlands —Provincetown, MA
A few days in the Province Lands & I am only one
only one girl crowned
& anchored for her heart’s desire.
The wet heat of Commercial St. tickles me like fantastic garlands
& the lobster dumplings at Mews, forward
not lasting
but still I can’t loosen your claw
& the bog song of Bearberry Hill says come along
& the wet heat of Commercial St. tickles me like fantastic garlands
blending events feared & desired, actual &
imagined. Now we are the party & the guests
a modern girl larded with multitudes
perfect teeth, screamy dreamy
a magical vampishness to tumble you in the sun.
All day I speak in tongues
like a mermaid, or a spirit—
the Ariels at Long Point Beach know me well,
Molly Bish & Margaret Cavendish know me well
they know my useless dress and cursive singing,
they know cocktails at the Post Office Cafe & Cabaret impress
it’s the breakwater, Ophelia, that divides me.
Chasing Daphne
of European fountains you were dotingly enamored,
the baroness who collected pipes and drains
the boom and bust of baroque drapery, bodily machines
Daphne youthed in Travertine
I embrace every tree in the West.
Grow my hair,
wear women’s clothes
to get an inch closer to you
my sweetly slutty princess days.
I’m out of breath from Paris to Marseilles
il fonce to rakish Rome,
what would maman say.
O Triumph spitfired with leaden arrows.
I am crowded and leaking strange relics.
Like a guerrilla war in high heels.
Isn’t the moss wonderful, darling.
BIO: Damon Hubbs writes poems about Thulsa Doom, Italo disco & girls who cry at airports. He's the author of three chapbooks (most recently Charm of Difference, from Back Room Poetry). His latest work appears/is forthcoming in BRUISER, Don't Submit!, Riggwelter Press, Misery Tourism, Bullshit Lit, & elsewhere. twitter @damon_hubbs