Nick Demske
Nick Demske vive en Racine Wisconsin y trabaja allí en la Biblioteca Pública de Racine. Su manuscrito homónimo fue elegido por Joyelle McSweeney para Fence Modern Poets Series Award y publicado por Fence Books en 2010. Es fundador y editor de la boo foro en línea: un diario de cosas terribles (http: //boojournal.wordpress .com /) y aspectos positivos y negativos del BONK! serie de rendimiento en Racine
(http://bonkperformanceseries.wordpress.com/).
Para encontrar comentarios, entrevistas, poemas, audio, video y una lista de las próximas lecturas, por favor visite http://nickipoo.wordpress.com/
Publicaciones y Premios:
Libros: [self-titled] (Fence Books, 2010)
Antologías: narrative (dis)continuities: prose experiments by younger american writers (recycled karma press, 2010)
Revistas: Action Yes, Arsenic Lobster, BlazeVox, Conduit, Death Metal Poetry, Disquieting Muses, Fact-Simile, knock, MAKE: A Chicago Literary Magazine, Monkey Puzzle, Moria, Pank, Pinstripe Fedora, Sawbuck, Seven Corners, The Bathroom, thieves jargon, West Wind Review, Word Riot
Premios: 2010 Fence Modern Poets Series Award
Devoro cada día
Y me bebo la noche. Como langosta cebada cervecera, empino el codo hasta que el sol se asoma. Vuélcame. Viérteme. Esta obra se arroja en tandas. ¿Comió el chacal semi Pro-Ana? “Nain”. Arbeit Macht Frei.
A todo adicto le gusta un sol naciente, opio hirviente salpicando el valle. Los ojos del violador de divas están más inflamados que su pantalón. Arde al ver satisfecha su pasión.
Devoro cada día y me trago la noche de tinta. Tengo un desorden alimenticio; el más semi-prolífico sexo serviadicto al trabajo en el salón de la flama de la gran
—Ovación— estancia.
¡Ovación Divina
nición! Yo también soy el infierno, un insano, disoluto como feliz es una lombriz. Envalentonado violento, aprendevoro cuanto puedo, y me ensaño con la luz que agoniza, es exquisito. Y esto es lo que obtienes. Esta poesía regurgiturgente. La vomitobra prefabricada, rehabilitada, y despreciosa de una celebridad.
Pues bien, Carpe al día por las llantas jugulum quisiera decir hay mierda que no he de tragar pero nunca supe cuándo Renunciar.
Perro caliente
¿Crees que este bolso me hace ver gordo?
No, pero te hace ver como un perfecto idiota.
Y también un poco gordo, sí. No sé los ingredientes
de un perro caliente. Pero si actúas como un niño tan hartante,
voy a comerte como a uno. ¿Por qué fingir que es coincidencia? ¿Por qué
Servirle tu cuerpo a la ciencia cuando podría alimentar
A un pueblo entero? Quiero lamerte en lugares
que me infectarían la lengua. ¿Me hace ver gordo esta
Prosperidad que tanto me ha costado? Este humor tan os
curo que te Sabe a chocolate.
Nick Demske, eres lo malo del mundo. Es decir:
DL. mundo. Cuéntame tus ingredientes más secretos.
Que este gran centro Comer cial fue alguna vez un bos
Que estas marcas de dientes, un beso. ¿Me hacen ver gordo estas prioridades,
las cicatrices, los explosivos bajo mi sudadera?
NOTICE
Inc ompliance with federal law, you are hereby
Notified that a pest control service application
May or may not have been performed on this poem or certain, nearby
Poems of separate origin. Anything you say or do can
And will be used against you in an act of contrition;
Para Español, marqué dos. I got an autographed edition
of The Iliad off e-bay. I got a father that weeps
at what’s traditionally wept at. I want to eat
your excretia. Women and children first, sir.
Paper or plastic? Dying or dead? Make up your mind,
Man. This is an elegy, not an ode
And I, the highest priestess of this town commode
Hereby defibrillate these cadavers for fun. I go
Pee in the sink. I dance. I sing. I love to say I told you so.
*
An idea’s value depreciates the moment
You drive it off the lot. More proof this “literature”
Fad passes with each iamb. Peppermint
Schnapps compliments uninsured Hummers like an over
Eager metro sexual. But it’s just a waning
Gibbous briefly waxing poetic. How long till each strophe
Degrades to diluvian Pop culture references? Aging trophy
Husband, virgin waxed Brazilian—why
Do we invest so recklessly in stock pronounced a plummet?
This yacht has sailed. If there’s such thing as love
At first sight. If there’s such thing as out of sight and out of
Fashion, you’re Go-Go boots, love. When your pulse summits,
The EKG tweets “sell” in Morse code
Through gold fronts. And it’s going: once. twice. sold.
AND THE SYMBOL OF HIS COVENANT SHALL
DECORATE OUR SHIELDS
There is no peace, saith the Lord, unto the wicked.
Sorry to rain on your pride parade. The matri
Arch has come to terms most derogatory, developmentally stunted.
The matriarch caught with his pants down, salty
As Lot’s wife herself. God is a virgin
Which explains a lot. God is a Christian,
Initiating full-blown AIDS like foreplay.
If the forbidden fruit tastes abominable, you’re saved,
You’re deviant, you’re unnatural. I’m out.Peace be with you. Be not afraid.
It’s just a stage. God is love, uncer
Tain restrictions may apply, void
Where prohibited, This is my alter
Ego, This is my altar boy, This is my two shekels.
The matriarch knows God. Personally. In the biblical sense.
AS FAR AWAY
“mortals were careful [then] and never forsook the shores of their homelands.”
--Ovid
The Holocaust never existed. What are you going to do
About it? The Holocaust never happened, but your mother’s autopsy reveals
It can if you just believe. To
Page this person, press five now. All sales fatal. All sales
Symbolically representative of mortality. I know a woman so redolent
Of pulchritude you’d contract second
Hand erectile dysfunction from the mere hint of her figment.
The Holocaust never happened. Better luck next time. A woman
So pulchritudinous you want to turn away, as far away
As humanly possible. I meant to do that. For old time’s sake. When
You’re finished recording, please hang up and try
Again. God is of not much use here, like a lesbian
So beautiful she turns gay men
Straight. I don’t believe in the Holocaust. Amen.
BOWDLER-DASH
for Dave Geisler
Stay out of grown folks’ business. Do not stare at the burn on her
Face. Do not stare at the views and opinions expressed here
Are not necessarily the views and opinions of Nick Demske, the quaint, cowed,
Cupcake of a schoolboy. The French toast begging your pardon. Say it loud:
“I’m white and I’m ashamed!” I’m a tramp on the streets and a Jesus freak
In the bed. Don’t ask stupid questions? At a low, low price? Point and click.
Shuck and Jive. Do you want to feel
My scars? My sweet topography, like rubberized Braille?
I thought you’d never ask.
I wouldn’t. Nor tell.
Do not look directly at the poem. Offer val
Id only at participating locations. MF
A. Slave dialect. I want your native tongue in the recess
Es of my throat like I want to command a better mastery of the patriarch’s all potent argot. Alls I’m trying to say is [section omitted]
Faux Hawk
for Dave Haynes
No is the new yes; hence the chic chip on this trapezius.
It matches my eyes, my first person limita
Tions. It complements my insults. Its sassy little number's neutral, potentially hazardous
By extension. The cashier tells us to have a good day.
But it's night. And we take this personally.
Night is the new day. I am violently Nick Demske, the pissy,
Second-hand trench coat of poetry. Behold my clearance discounts. I we
Ar my Nick Demske like a burkha-the lamb's wool codpiece, pessi
Mystic. I once wrote a death letter to a childhood pen pal. Now I write
Death letters to everyone, indiscriminate. You, sir, write
Love letters to no one. How common.
No (1) is the new yes, justifying our mutual molestations. Our denomin
Ator lies in faux pas, dysfashion, dysfunction. But this is a pact, in
Which I swear to write defective odes to someone I still don't hate, feigning satisfaction.
.
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