rad poetry #7: for t. leaven nympho

RAD POETRY THANKS T. LEAVEN NYMPHO AND BRYAN COFFELT



No One Ever Works On Trying Anymore. There's Just Too Much Sun Or Something.
by Bryan Coffelt

for T. Leaven Nympho

I.

The rise and fall of physical media -- an Xbox + Camus.
A creed is dripping on my shoes a little. The doubling of
the heart finally happens as the sun is directly above
Old Navy. It's like you've chosen to ignore God's AK.
Now we must bear all consequences of the lack of
God's AK.

II.

Um, a priori, "finding out Hot Topic is not for you."
So we learn to "conquer ourselves," conquer our whole
Comic Sans bible study. You will become pregnant
with two sharp blows to the head. Call them
Husqvarna and Fox Racing. These will be burned
to discs and stored in your safety deposit boxes.

III.

Choosing an attitude towards bearing children --
maybe a "switching off." Stashin' the nina when
the cops are in my heart. Like watching a
chat room happen and saying a/s/l all the time.
Wondering (all the time) what Ellen Page would
actually look like when she's preggers.

IV.
Choose one of your children as the coward
and one as the hero, and, um, well, they'll
choose if you don't. "Camus will have
none of this anthropomorphism." The
jailhouse of Kantian eBaynomics. The
friend-shaped keloid scarring disaster.

V.

Existential stumbles / in line at Wendy's.
Your conception of condition and freedom,
your Baconator. Your filthy obstacles, your
backwards numbering. Your scientific truth
is the washing instructions for your new
Banana Republic jeans. We will name
flowers after you when you die.