Death Metal Poetry
no cookies. no music. just poems.
IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT:

Dear death metal poet-hopefuls,

I, Ryan Downey, have allowed my considerable backlog of submissions to fester in the humid inner chambers of gmail for too long. I have had a glut of responsibilities over these past 6-7 months and I have failed to honor my responsibility to you all. I brought Ian Davisson on board because I was overwhelmed, but I was already too far behind for that strategy to work. Here is my solution. If you have submitted to dmp and are still waiting for a response, wait no more. Some of you might not even remember the poems you sent me (that is how far behind I am) and you might not be pleased by them any more. Please re-send your submission (same poems, different poems, letter calling me an asshole) to rdowney15@gmail.com. I will respond within 2 weeks of each submission. If you note that you were one of the wonderful, patient people who fell into my backlog abyss, I will most likely respond much quicker than 2 weeks. Shit. I am sorry. Don't blame Ian. Blame Ryan Downey. Please resend. Please don't spit on me or sucker punch me if you see my at awp or some nonsense one day.

-Ryan

       Mark Leidner         J. Bradley         Talia Reed          Eli Halpern           

                        Ryan Daley       Nick Demske       
F.D. Marcél         

       Christopher Mulrooney      Brian Foley     Daniela Olszewska                      
  
                                                                  
                

                                             
                                           


           

 

 


07/20/08

Cooling the House
by Mark Leidner



I try to imagine what air conditioners would say if they had mouths and minds of their own, like after a really long day of trying to cool a really hot house, at night when they can finally turn off because they got it cool enough they go, Good job today, guys. We really lowered the temperature of the air in here. Or if a strange car pulls up into the driveway, in the middle of cooling the house, without even skipping a beat they go, Who the fuck's car is that? Or let's say somebody's grandmother dies, and the family decides to hold the wake at the house, and the grandmother was always really mean to her daughter, always reminding her daughter how disappointed she was in her, and always belittling the daughter's husband for not bringing in enough money, even though the family was, in actuality, quite well-provided for by him, and so while they are cooling all of that the air conditioners are also observing it when the funeral parlor guys wheel her casket in through the front door, and one of them goes, Man, I don't want to be an asshole, but I'm sort of glad she's gone. I never really liked her. To which the other air conditioner replies, Dude, totally. She was a true bitch. Good riddance. Meanwhile wanting to solemnly nod, but being held well in place by a few screws through the window pane, and pinned beneath the weight of the top half of the window itself, it cannot. So it does the only thing it can do, which is go on cooling the house.


Mark Leidner's poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Forklift, Ohio, The Iowa Review, Notnostrums, Skein, and Thermos. His chapbook The Night of 1,000 Murders is available through Factory Hollow Press. He teaches at Abraham Baldwin College in his hometown of Tifton, GA.


07/13/08

You Think This Poem Is About You

by J. Bradley


Your moose knuckle
knocks the wind
out of tornadoes.

When you ask
"What's your sign?"
people answer "Dead End".

You make masturbating
with chainsaws
an attractive alternative.

If God had a plan for you,
he would give it to others
so they could escape.


J. Bradley dreams of piloting the Black Lion.  Word Riot, MungBeing Magazine, and Clockwork Cat gave some of his work a home.  Find him here at myspace.com/jbradley.



07/06/08

The Thin Dream

by Talia Reed

 


Take something new from me.  Call it shale, the

layers of murky-watered foliage, the

Sierra Nevada consolidated clay.

 

All peaking now; weight, strength, all it can hold.

 

Take something spiraling and prong-like that

doesn’t fit in your pocket, can’t be

hidden under your shirt, that scrapes into the

tender side and glints bright in the sun of

any time of day.

 

Like the lichen-plagued leaf, the patched-over

rooftops, the scrim curtain fall and blanket be.

 

The red-turning and gold-turning.

The crisp growing and time haunting of

this season.  It dovetails only the slightest

of my consciousness.  The life of all of us

goes ratcheting up and the refuse gets

sloughed off, we lessen, and our hearts

slush out in abandon.

 

No one else hears the warning of the

world being on fire, of all the turning

points being blown up.

 

A thin dream, vaporous as cobwebs.

Sorry as silence.

Dumped as darkness from dawn.



Talia Reed graduated from Indiana University with a degree in Secondary English Education.  Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Switchback, Arsenic Lobster, Avatar Review, Elimae,  Wicked Alice, Main Street Rag and others.  She is a columnist for Oranges &  Sardines and she occasionally writes for her local South Bend Tribune.  She lives in Indiana with her husband, 3 year-old, and chihuahua, all of whom speak Spanish.


05/01/08

Banana and cucumber masturbating

by Eli Halpern


banana and cucumber in strongly worded e-mail


or say we gaped with puns    

 

           "reaching in for years"

                         in receiving her


a sham of clicking out


found plugged in cucumber


and carrot


            her profiled           


"i will always remember u drinking


beer from a vase"        spread of

            

banshees eating out


speaking vase region "what a classic


momentary drawl!"


when the French tricked us into


                        opening in cars

 

II

against her pile

Mike had granted us


god of speech and finally we pulled him


from his car.


                        to this day the armor


feels gross. like it went on TV.   

 

                      "i remember when


i would ask if he was going out.. and he would say


does a bear shit in the woods...."


            no one knew


to lodge weapon shapes in


                        sleep. one story


with his old lady


went out but does a bear

           

his vaselined guardian

   
angles and all this one


ruins of christmas


Eli Halpern grew up in Chicago and is currently a literature student at Brown University.  He draws and paints at elihalpern.com.  Sometimes he draws using letters on word processors; these he calls "poems," though he thinks they look better as colonies of shapely ants



03/12/08

You make even milk bubbles seem like no fun, 31, m4w
By Ryan Daley

 
I wanted to tell you your laces are undone. Please, make sure you have your belongings before you go walking off again. I hate fires.

I am also selling your handmade wooden desk chair. It is now kindling. You will pay me re: funds for these matches that support you. There's also no more way you can see my grunion. Nope. You really consider as student. How could you have worn my shows to the shower? Didn't you think that hmmm perhaps these technologies wear out? Why are you so blunt and disgusted with my version of oatmeal. Yar!


Ryan Daley just got engaged. Long, hard and deep. Likening this to "in a jar of pennies" are how he'd prefer to spend his time. Instead he teaches and uploads web content. His work has appeared recently in Galatea Resurrects, Scantily Clad Press, Blazevox, and GlitterPony. He blogs at Giver.



03/04/08

from OTIS HENRY
by Nick Demske


Otis Henry constructs poetry while he waits for his TV dinner to be done in the microwave
Otis Henry architchtualizes rhyme while awaiting lasagnas to cool.
Oh, Otis Henry—how colonial thou art at birthing poy-ems!  How semi-prolific
That even during the commercial breaks Otis Henry pencilifies the mightydom.
Yea, even between flaps of the hummingbird’s wing.
Chuck Norris doesn’t sleep—he waits. 
Otis Henry, on the other hand, sleeps.  But he also waits as well.
And in his waiting: o what verbage, what adverbage, what nounage!
While waiting in the doctor’s office, Otis Henry deploys a fleet of poetry
Waiting for his tacos at the restaurant—Otis Henry legislates poeticals like law.
Waiting in linee at the drug store—poems.
Oh, it’s time to go, the lasagna’s done.


Nick Demske is a Creative Writing graduate of Carthage College in Kenosha, Wisconsin.  He lives in Racine, Wisconsin, and works there at the public library.


02/25/08

oh Laudanum
by F.D.
Marcél


Everything is fine, I'm
the only one helping these
skeletons move their furniture
up teethless spiral staircases
in a neverending bloodstream,
seems like
someone's had their fill
of sleeping pills & I don't know
how much longer we'll last
holding the divan
through the doorway. everything
is fine, I'm the only one
helping these skeletons
kick cocaine w/ their
sharp & clacking fingerbones
crossed, humming along
to Moog chords, what a damaged
flock of calcium dancing
like wedding bells when they
used to work for Disney, minimum
wage. everything is fine! said
the space heater! Laudanum
makes the space heater talk.



F.D. Marcél writes. A listing of his recent work can be found at www.myspace.com/tragedymachine



02/18/08

Villa Nova

by Christopher Mulrooney



a sort of railway station
in a small town with a theater

 

it's a comfy place

 

one knows the people there

 

it welcomes you

 

you have won

 

that's what would have happened

 

the spectacular things have written themselves
across the zodiac
blankly

 

all the girls were there
the bright mentality
the weigher of purposes
the distinguisher of finer things
the lioness

 

with our purposive figments

 

it is a very happy converse
top to bottom

 

and here is the time of day
when the buggering gods hid their faces
and the Dea Mater shrouded us

 

dance attendance upon us
in our beds
beside the reliquaries

 

the disputations continue
and we are as subdued

 

here we miscalculate
as well as we can

 

it is made to order for we
have worked very hard
to bear away the simple palms
and the bays as one

 

what do we think about it?
it is a sealed door
with magnificent openings

 

to be gracious tends
to help a little

 

a Consort of broken Musicke

 

if I might suggest something
else try
this

 

the great da