No More Fantasizing of the Dead
If one thought of words like glass
and made it wine-red, a thick
piece to seas, one that you will toss
with night waves and roll smooth;
turn, tumble rough crests for years till
all its edges have worn and gone,
then you won't know her from bygone
childhood, when behind a plate of glass
she sat, framed, a keepsake for me till
she left with that dick from down there, thick
with his southern assonance, owning her smooth
hair, long and blond, but broken, a toss
here and she'd come near and toss
it to my face, first girl I fantasized about; gone
to the night with him and her smooth
face against my pimples and her opaque glass-
like teeth, mom said would've been thick
but from vomit; how I fantasized of her till
I found out she died in a crash; till
I found out Oldsmobile could toss
such beauty through a plate of that thick
Oldsmobile-standard windshield, gone
Into the night with her neck choked by glass
Shards. Blood runs, curls, slick and smooth
sheets of her blood and his mix. His smooth
lips awe-dang asphalt and cops smoke till
their throats rasp that quiet-calm broken-glass
silence, and rasp voices mention the sheer loss
of such beauty in waves, beauty quickly gone
to sea in a rather gored and quite thick
mess of her scalp, broken to peach, thick
scull, hard against tree branches, smooth
under shorn bark; another driver gone
into a ditch where deer will soon graze till
some fuck will shoot them and toss
meager doe bodies on the shatter-glass
Ford they playfully shot when told glass
of a Ford can take buckshot, and they'd gone
and killed that deer and gave it that ugly toss.
Hamza
Full room, hot,
And silent folk
Waiting.
How slow one
Man's fist grips
His wait.
Grip, grip; leather
Dry; grip, slip an
Althorn scythe
Direct to nasal
Passages and canals
Interrupted; cringe.
Intestacy In Three
1
It sings out,
but rein it in,
(don't you fear
anyone bothering after)
for it folds on a desk, at reach.
Find lines undone.
2
Wills find fear
encourages. Soon.
Not forgotten, always then
forgetting—this time and,
written, it'd lose form.
– Depends on us dead.
3
I trash wills for some
immortal person I play, always.
Wrap me up, this will,
and supinate my deed.
I find a day to write it,
hold it, still—but then all this.
Audio Files
Ekleksographia:
Wave Two
May, 2010
Poetry
Conor Madigan
Conor Robin Madigan produces music with his brother, Brian Charles Madigan, in Evanston, Illinois. Conor has writing forthcoming in The Republic of Letters, The New York Tyrant, 30 under 30, and elsewhere. Brian makes steel swords and knives soon to be available to purchase.