nick demske
3 poems from Starfucker
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The Starfucker syphons
A dawn through binoculars, curses the meddlesome nimbi. The Starfucker blogs of its radiance ad infinitum, issues a litany of hypertexted dicta. When the accident at the fireworks factory wasn't yet front page, the Starfucker gazed into its flowers, lurking in the dark, then the light, then the dark again. "Sister," it whispered, "how quickly fades your visage. Yet see your smirk still I in smudgy puffs against the even." What do you love in this world and why? What lengths would you travel to substantiate said love? The star fucker has the scars to prove it, shoddily masked with foundation. Escort me, now, to the firmament, Starfucker. Blind the subdivision with your Christmas. Hold this hand, Starfucker, over this candle. One. Two. Three. Four.
**
The White
Dwarf can only land parts playing a white dwarf. The Mexicans can only land parts playing Indians. The unemployed Indians bask in the moon's impossible water. Starfucker, this part is perfect for you. And so a little bear gains a million billion pounds and constipates itself to survive. The child actor's breasts command enough pronunciation that she'll never be cast as anyone her age. But what fortune her development will spare her parents in surgery! The Starfucker dips a square of sponge in a polish tin of night. Or, when the cork's perfect lambency peters out, the starfucker hides its own light with the ashes. Though its light too be darkness. Though its fatsuit be sackcloth. When the boy's voice starts cracking, they banish him from his forbidden and sweet Juliet. Starfucker, washeth the dye from thy hair into the black hole of this sink. The twin moons writhe like eyes in a burnt, black face. Study this character well, Starfucker, for day disappears in a flash.
**
Obsessively Whittling Zest Bars
Into a singular likeness, the Starfucker's hygiene shall henceforth rank tertiary. Thus is offered the sacrifice. Ivory rows multiply daily. When the mantle overpopulates, the kitchen crowds with figurines. First the table. Then the counter. Then the drawers. Errant shavings evade a vacuum's jurisdiction. Flecks of tallow spangle the dark carpet, and twinkle. Oh, Supermarket Clerk, how it baffles you! The ratio of this customer's skin detergent purchases versus such radical stench. The Starfucker smoothes a thumb over its sticky figurines. How fair this complexion, yet so rich in steatopygia. We will wade the tub sans lather--soak our sooty limbs--and circumscribe a filthy ring around its porcelain eye. The sun is collapsing now. Not long til night. Breathlessly, Starfucker. Breathlessly await tomorrow. Every closet in this apartment brims with possibility and the circlet 'round your bathtub begs to be fed.
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return to sawbuck 3.2
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Nick Demske lives in Racine, Wisconsin, and works there at the Racine Public Library. This is always the bio note he sends to journals because he's not super-fond of bio notes. Since he has a little more investment in you as a person now, though, here's some other info about him, just so you know more: he loves his apartment...six blocks from lake Michigan and five blocks from his job, which he also dearly loves. He has the privilege of doing some poetry programming, such as the BONK! series (bonkperformanceseries.wordpress.com) and a contemporary poetry discussion group called The Poetry Roundtable (rplpoetryroundtable.wordpress.com).
**
The Starfucker syphons
A dawn through binoculars, curses the meddlesome nimbi. The Starfucker blogs of its radiance ad infinitum, issues a litany of hypertexted dicta. When the accident at the fireworks factory wasn't yet front page, the Starfucker gazed into its flowers, lurking in the dark, then the light, then the dark again. "Sister," it whispered, "how quickly fades your visage. Yet see your smirk still I in smudgy puffs against the even." What do you love in this world and why? What lengths would you travel to substantiate said love? The star fucker has the scars to prove it, shoddily masked with foundation. Escort me, now, to the firmament, Starfucker. Blind the subdivision with your Christmas. Hold this hand, Starfucker, over this candle. One. Two. Three. Four.
**
The White
Dwarf can only land parts playing a white dwarf. The Mexicans can only land parts playing Indians. The unemployed Indians bask in the moon's impossible water. Starfucker, this part is perfect for you. And so a little bear gains a million billion pounds and constipates itself to survive. The child actor's breasts command enough pronunciation that she'll never be cast as anyone her age. But what fortune her development will spare her parents in surgery! The Starfucker dips a square of sponge in a polish tin of night. Or, when the cork's perfect lambency peters out, the starfucker hides its own light with the ashes. Though its light too be darkness. Though its fatsuit be sackcloth. When the boy's voice starts cracking, they banish him from his forbidden and sweet Juliet. Starfucker, washeth the dye from thy hair into the black hole of this sink. The twin moons writhe like eyes in a burnt, black face. Study this character well, Starfucker, for day disappears in a flash.
**
Obsessively Whittling Zest Bars
Into a singular likeness, the Starfucker's hygiene shall henceforth rank tertiary. Thus is offered the sacrifice. Ivory rows multiply daily. When the mantle overpopulates, the kitchen crowds with figurines. First the table. Then the counter. Then the drawers. Errant shavings evade a vacuum's jurisdiction. Flecks of tallow spangle the dark carpet, and twinkle. Oh, Supermarket Clerk, how it baffles you! The ratio of this customer's skin detergent purchases versus such radical stench. The Starfucker smoothes a thumb over its sticky figurines. How fair this complexion, yet so rich in steatopygia. We will wade the tub sans lather--soak our sooty limbs--and circumscribe a filthy ring around its porcelain eye. The sun is collapsing now. Not long til night. Breathlessly, Starfucker. Breathlessly await tomorrow. Every closet in this apartment brims with possibility and the circlet 'round your bathtub begs to be fed.
**
return to sawbuck 3.2
**
Nick Demske lives in Racine, Wisconsin, and works there at the Racine Public Library. This is always the bio note he sends to journals because he's not super-fond of bio notes. Since he has a little more investment in you as a person now, though, here's some other info about him, just so you know more: he loves his apartment...six blocks from lake Michigan and five blocks from his job, which he also dearly loves. He has the privilege of doing some poetry programming, such as the BONK! series (bonkperformanceseries.wordpress.com) and a contemporary poetry discussion group called The Poetry Roundtable (rplpoetryroundtable.wordpress.com).
Labels: 3.2, nick demske
