Godhead

Watching Querelle
with Nicole
—Savoy Theater, Vermont
In the flamboyance
of almost spring, I cry
when I hear
the average lit mag
only lasts three years. 
The radiant child, dead…
The VIP room, closed…
Bon vivants, proteges
lost to others
with breathless infatuation.
Each man kills
the thing he loves.

I know the boys of Brest.
They’ve left the ports of Brittany
for garish movie sets.
They wear marinière
and talk of the radical left.
They have transistor radios and sacks
of delicious apples.
I know the boys of Brest
kickback in tender times of war
eat caviar, unplug the phone… 
They have razor-sharp goatees
and eyes like shabby-garret rooms.
They smoke opium and steal
my uncollected poems
the sea
the solitude
my leading lady.
O the glory,
the glory
It doesn’t stay up
forever.

St Agatha

I shoot a whale gun
off a balcony in New Bedford,
a Hail Mary
like something strong,
like something you can get off on.
You play pickleball with St Agatha,
poke and cut as if it’s the greatest
adventure of the decade.
You’re noted for your majesty of style
effectively unchallenged,
although St Agatha owns six paintings
by the greatest modernist
no one has ever heard of…
That’s art for you
The private allusions are too much
Dead dink
Shake
and bake
Watch the Erne
I’m wearing a fake mustache
to cover my stiff upper lip.

Loplop     Wuthering Heights    Rehearsing for the Artists Union Gala

Dear Cinnette          this morning I checked
the feed and fixtures  
the downward trending media-ecosystems
This morning I discovered
a collection of poems called Letters to Kelly Clarkson
This morning I went down on Sailor Moon
Book World,     gone       Brussels,     AI
Remember that scene in Henry and June
when June says she wants Henry
to be     like
Dostoyevsky
This morning I got drunk to a devastating free skate

I have just returned from a visit to my landlord
The snow is like smashed computer parts. Dear
Cinnette          sorry for the weather report—
My children feed the capitalist machine
Why are surrealists obsessed with umbrellas,
bicycles
and group photos…
This morning I slacked my thirst for profane sainthood
Honestly I don’t know what it feels like for a girl
Too hot, too greedy

The feed and fixtures, Dear Cinnette
what with the robots winning
this might be a Letter Never Sent (1959)
In literature. As in life
it’s more pardonable to follow natural desires
No one inquired about my politics at the time
This morning I plagiarized my unconscious mind
Let’s rhyme plants and consequence. Let’s watch the birds
and call it a day
characterized by strong wind  



Damon Hubbs is a poet from New England. Recent publications include Burning House Press, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Literary Underground, Revolution John, The Gorko Gazette, and others. His latest collection, Bullet Pudding, is forthcoming from Roadside Press in 2027. His poems have been nominated for the Pushcart and Best of the Net. He is a poetry editor at Blood+Honey.

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