M.Demyan is currently chopping wood in the green mountains of Vermont. He has one poetry manuscript looking for a home and is also working on a literary novel. Co-editor of DenimSkin.
Bedford
‘I’m at the Abbey’
‘That’s so close’
‘So come on overrr :)’
Bedford
I’m your slave tonight
to guise in new age tribes
under the popcorn smell of flowers & rubber
in bloom beneath the bridges of Brooklyn
Bedford
is painted up and down
with hipster pool halls
with tattoo junkies
in an elevatedcultureoff,
emptying their baggies
in bathrooms
glossed with graffiti & piss
we dance behind
photo booth curtains
wallpaper our face
all over the place
Bedford
I’m ragged in flannel
prisoner to the lipsticked collar
held captive by my pistol
Wednesday
six thirty am she wakes up
to use the toilet, cannot
close the bathroom door
seven thirty am he
wakes up to use the toilet
back to sleep his mind
oscillates eight thirty am she is
motionless still in bed
the sun rises higher
starring through the split
drapes he turns over
drapes his arms across the body
she is turned away
from him he kisses her morning
rolls onto his back investigating
the nothing of his phone she makes
silent sounds draping a leg
over him he wants coffee now
it’s nine am both still in bed
somewhat reluctant but whatever no plans
it’s fine finally awake
she is hungry wanting coffee
he wants sex he says something
about it she says something she’s funny
he is a flower rising to dress
back to her she calls him
back to bed
facing the window so bright
it’s bright
“did you finish watching?”
“I did.”
“what happened at the end?”
“someone else became the killer
the man was turning into
something…I don’t know”
“weird.”
he goes out with a kiss
she puts on her clothes
in the grocery store
he collects
one red pepper
one avocado
one package of 8 flour tortillas
descending the staircase
with books layered in a shirt
a sweater a sarong tied on
like a cape in the coffee house
he expires his gift card on decaf lattes
enjoying the cold
outside, which was missing him
it finally felt appropriate
to walk smiling to himself
open door climb stairs boots off open door
finding her on
the couch writing a paper breakfast
made and served they eat
smiley wonderful lovers
where people claimed impossible
lunatics forged into the void
more paper after kisses and dishes rinsed
he looks for work
unsuccessfully makes phone calls
thinks of what poems would be
written when in time there is
poetry to think of he crawls
into her arms three p.m. what is found?
his feared emptiness he swims on
conflicted hapless sorry
unclear with the mail that comes she coos
“everything will be
fine my little fish”
they roll and laugh and squeeze it’s four p.m.
he goes climbing
she goes yoga
she walks he takes train
it is further
it is a disappointment sauna
out of order sweats
90 minutes of spine stretching a fad
she says will die he climbs v5 first day
back after 38
trots off happy making a call
to the man to make it green
his train is crowded
she showers dresses
losing a sock walking slow
but gets there
he is waiting
outside in a feeling of alien observing
people on their winter walks
home off to dinner or to lover or wife
just walking home
to someone or no one at all
they meet 6:27pm for Thai food
green curry red curry dumplings they share
under the music
incongruous to the atmosphere a man
disturbed:
“you kids better hope WALT WHITMAN
doesn’t beat the SAY ANYTHING because he’ll
never beat the AMERICAN FASCIST”
food arrives they eat they pay they agree
on cold walk home holding close
talking about differences in culture and time
in Costa Rica he thinks
it is finally cold again
stairs door stairs door couch
they study Spanish waiting for the man
they supplement they eat a cookie
to bide time he undresses nine p.m.
he goes to shower
only for the man to respond
he dresses clothes back on
he goes six blocks
for cash withdrawal she reads
a book looks for a big job abroad
to save the world she saves him
returning with sixty dollars he showers
finally now long hot distracted she climbs
towards the bedroom like a mouse
or cat or the honey bee
under the deep blankets illuminated
face from laptop light he drops towel
not sexy practical for sleep
swims in holds close eyes underwater
like anytime she leans in and breathes
“X-Files?”
he decides he likes the name Fox
but not the name Apple
thinks he is a wolf but really a dog
don’t fall asleep don’t fall asleep don’t fall asleep
“are you asleep?”
she’s awake now 11pm
she turns over the episode is done
she moves as he touches moves closer
they have sex just to please him
leaving a room dark at midnight
and the drugs never come.
