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M. Doughty's poetry can be found on the CD Poemfone:New Word Order and in the book Verses That Hurt as well as his self-published Slanky, which is available on the Buy Some Stuff page.


Butter/Lost

Against hands, a smooth
is smoothed around
and skin
rushes up to it,
cooing sweat like a whistle
defecting a steampipe.

Oiled, the machine chuffs
and the brain is dry, and the nerves
scurry off with messages to no one
in charge, while this equals this:
two arms locked into each other
are without a mind to differentiate
between limbs and hips, therefore,
I have come here to get lost.


From a Gas Station Outside Providence

 

This kiss, unfinished;
lips to receiver in the parking lot,
a pucker shot through a fiber optic wire
to an answering machine,
toward switchboards and stations transmitting
in blips to satellites, this kiss
thrown earthward and shooting down
coils, around pipeline and electric power
lumbering underground,
up threads and transistors
and transference points.
This kiss is zeroes and ones jumbled
and tossed into the pneumatic system,
unscrambled at the end and scrawled
onto a tape recorder slowly rolling
at the side of your bed,
then slapping back, reverbed
off the ringer, a tinny phantom
of the smooch like a smack on
an aluminum can, up the same
veins through the belly of the same satellite
and softly to the side of my head;
his kiss is home before the next exhalation leaves.

I'm stooped in the booth,
pounding quarters into the slot;
yellow light droops over the asphalt,
and your ghost, too cool
and elusive with those hands and mouth
sings around me in the smell of gasoline,
Whose mouth is this, scratched in static;
some droplet of a sigh, atomized,
and sputtering digitized into my room?


By the Lighty of the Silvery Silvery

 

Goodnight, mud by the thousands
of whatever unit they measure mud by;
you can't move through it without missing
the angry bleached light
of usual. A bubble of humidity
forms above everything, and is
scratched open by the frictions of
machines moving
and human energies.

Hope dies and I
shake off the excess water,
spend a half hour crafting some opening
statement, but only give her a tape
and say It's a gift. For me, she says,

eyeballs floating to the top of the eye,
and I can't speak, but hand-signal; Victory.


The Blonde Valerie

 

In a dim bar on Transept
and Marylebone Road,
she bloomed, the treble
of the music rising up
in sharpness around her--
the frequencies went straight to the teeth.

She was meringue
in a green suit, her silver
shoes radiant,
and a shimmy that sent
her hips in a liquid
piston motion to the floor,
like cream shifting in a glass.
One glance; the eye on the eye
sizzled like crayons
on super 8 film,
and she bared her
angry monkey teeth at me--
each tooth its own moon
in a pollution town,
tobaccostained pickups
on a junkstore guitar.

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