Drew Scott Swenhaugen

Six Origins On The Death Of Shrotzky: War Poems
for Ian Hunter Anderson


6

We reach the same end by discrepant
means, don’t we?
Left without a chance a chance is rarely taken, ha ha.
Instead, I think we should be talking about
our newest experiences & that you,
citizen, should stop crying
or the residual dust of you, baby,
will petrify, & it literally, truly will not be good
for anyone. This assay comes from my
bedroom, a chasm where Cheeze Its are
gloriously eaten. I am slaked, polytextured,
a crystal of solitary glee.
I offer you a cheddar wafer
as latent redemption or
a ready delivery of togetherness. Come!


6

Maybe this brut is a lamb on the street
whose teeth are simply missing. Stilly
beckon onto his world. He would fuck
anything for that A-team feeling &
he did. He’s shooting that modern rocket
straight into his air. The pinnacle of the
moment: his daring smile.
The sky falls down like glass
extremely intact, regardless.


6

What happens if I don’t like this town anymore.
The rusted gobble of it. Here is where a well-executed,
time-tested moral should come in. K, I’ll stay.
Because you’re here, I like that. We gather,
a union of loyal soft stone. And aim towards excitement.
Ready to clean the piss off of the parade
or shoot yr daddy down if he came in.


6

What is the ideal situation, given
the situation. A hand is stuck inside
the dummy. Its shorts are extremely
too short. Shouting in terra-cotta ware,
tamping out sound like the big ass stogy
called license. Sweet form of ware, but not this year.


6

Shrotzky, I’m worn out on virtue
also. I miss you with that booty
so right. You know where I’m
going with this. Instead of shouting
in my ear the secret directly,
cast a net, and call it a corporation project you’re working on. I love you.


6

A partition was reached
that I have never seen before.
Small of the back, back
of the knee. Clothed & ignorable, it shines
in auto-lux limelight. Smallish belly, I am yrs.
Perhaps this is in fact history at our
fingertips. I feel like taking a leader
down. Despite finger tip proximity, I am
unable to find a connection to all
the little places that are bearing
self-made light. Whatever it is that
is happening, it is unbuttoning walls
& ceilings. Beams & risers breathe
becoming part of the collective emotional
architecture, cured by dainty wacke salt.
The Painkiller Tour of 1999 is now over.
Speech! Speech!
Anyone can give the speech.
Pressing devices against each other is so sexy.
The device’s plumage is designed to be ready.


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return to sawbuck 5.2

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Drew Scott Swenhaugen is the co-editor of Poor Claudia and the co-curator of the Bad Blood Reading Series. He co-lives in Portland, Oregon