Michael Basinski: 6 poems

  Michael Basinski

  6 poems:

  Singing Concussions
  Singing Concussions

his sorrow a sparrow’s nipple
a ghost with moth holes from her wishes
she wished if only washing the mold off his dick
I could only remember the way things were so perfect
his perfect teeth yearn under his pillow
yen in waiting for his fairy coins
and his shit fit of a beating heart break
his song nonsensical a centrifuge of some giant bees and
her extinct Bactrian camel humps hummering an oasis
she went ape-shit when she found his promise hidden
under the bed and flat broke and bleached of all vitamins and nutrients
and he said I will solve everything
I will write you some innovative love poetry:

Ba be be bi bo
Cha da fa gha la ja
Ce cheche chi do go
Gho lo jo moomoo
Ghw jw
Scu sdu sfa sgi skia sla sno sbe sprwn fla sve
          B (for blackmail)

he came to life to lord it over me, but didn’t really reanimate romantically
like Imhotep this was his exotic exoskeleton
a land across time and he was one of my belongings
only he did not like it, dish washing, eating a taco, a new pair of blue crocs
pulling Nut’s hair from the persisting drain,
drinking many alcoholy liquids from clear plastic cups.
cup. Cupid. lift to her lips. lift and separate.
O! his poetry, his ridiculous musical only:

Playtex latex lined comma yellow moon cheese cop
Coma gloves of antibacterial alphabet lay off soft cotton white
The tongue empty on the kitchen sink of sweet summer handcuffs

I invite your delight and enter my heart; I said to him, shouted, my fucking weak heart, why not now? Now! Are you fucking deaf?

Fermenting fingers sweet fruit flies halo about the Coptic jar a necklace
Her red tube top in my gold Pontiac Catalina
          by the C

sure as shit he saw them
Buffalo ghosts in bathing suits
about July 10th, 1964
ghosts most often appeared as sperm
she said, I think this stanza smells like alfalfa sprouts.
spermatozoon colored ghosts flooded the Delaware Park S curves
like her hips between Forest Avenue and Nottingham
after dark crews pumped out water and sand from the lining
of her Ethel Mermaid swimsuit.
the torrential rainstorm summoned his assassination by her
so she shaved her legs without electricity temporarily
he in her electric chair with a disposable Gillette razor
until she melts and turns him liquid approximately 1400 °C to 1600 °C
and then cooling into glass beads, Ben Wa.
About ghosts: glass is the same as ghosts.

there is no history in poetry, hilarious, hysterectomy,
harmony, her hosiery.
you could see them.
you could almost feel them.
they had a taste all their own.

you can make glass by heating ordinary sand, which is mostly made of silicon dioxide,
and he swallowed small shards of her hot blonde glass
it cut his stomach and intestines to shreds.
there was a huge celebratory parade and he was her confetti.
she broke Ball canning jars in his driveway that resulted in two flat tires.
like his balls, she told the arresting officer.
until she melts and turns into a hot flood Sunday
and then into glass beads that kinda looked like jelly beans
clear, but dark, and some were a very light green


‘The Candy that Pours,’ he said.
some ghosts appear to cast shadows or reflections in holy water
though it is not clear what her proportions were
with her musty clothes on,
with their slight sweet mildew smell, waxing
the odor of a day was filling out insurance claim forms,
endlessly and fast,
wish, I was her chair
her D-cup bomb tests had major consequences on his geology
and the natural environment of her bikini line
her claim as a matter of fact may simply not be remembered,
especially after the nightly air raids, or so he told himself ,
in some cases her fire was sweet and remembered Lik-M-Aid
sirens little moist and dark


Hostess cupcakes filled with 67 nuclear tests carried out from the waves and wind between her paradise toes1946 to1958, including the explosion of the first H-bomb, pyro-cumulus mushroom shaped clouds exploded all over the god-damned place. squiggles. poetry, he said, poetry.
he said, I can fill up your cupcake, !Ergh-Ergh!
What an asshole you are, she said, you, are A, big, fucking, asshole. Ass. Hole.


she wanted to get married
the ring of sunken empty ships empty sent to the bottom of her leaky lagoon
his blood flows backwards into the chamber of her heart
and her vessel dies
of metaphoric venereal diseases with sand clogged veils
and he wrote more and more of his so-called experimental love poetry:

I as I sawed into as saw
The goddesses Mitral and Aortic.

he sang quietly to spell her:

The, he the he, saw, he saw saw
Horses with mare’s chocolate milk
Cookie sea sand the, the hot balls of sea salt

and, well, it worked, for a while
everyone told her to dump him. he’s not worth it.
he’s pretty but he’s crazy.
cut your losses not your wrists, sweetie, but
she said, you, Please! I’m begging you!
fuck my heart



Michael Basinski is the Curator of the Poetry Collection of the University Libraries, University at Buffalo and Director of UB Special Collections. He performs his work as a solo poet and in ensemble with the Don Metz Experience (D.M.E.). Among his recent books of poetry are Poems of a Polish-American Boy Poems, Piglittuce, and Trailers. His poems and other works have appeared in many magazines including Dandelion, BoxKite, Antennae, Open Letter, Deluxe Rubber Chicken, and many others. He lives in Buffalo.


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